


2.7 Kelvin

by tb_ll57



Series: Kelvin [1]
Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Angst and Porn, Conspiracy, Coups, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, From Sex to Love, Getting to Know Each Other, M/M, Plague, Politics, Post-Endless Waltz, Preventers (Gundam Wing), Relationship(s), Sex in Space, Space Flight, Space Stations, Undecided Relationship(s), but mostly sex, old LJ fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-07 01:25:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 79,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11048400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tb_ll57/pseuds/tb_ll57
Summary: “I suppose I’d be foolish to turn you down,” he said stiffly. “If only to… keep the boredom at bay.”





	1. One

Eight. Six. Eight. Six. Eight. Counter six, to catch his opponent by surprise. He repeated the succession of parries—six, eight, six, eight, six, eight, and a lateral four. The main advantage to the systematic parry was that it freed the fencer to concentrate on more than just his opponent’s blade. Without chasing the blade, without having to watch for a broken tempo attack or a feint, the mind only had to wait for the click of a brief touch, and the body knew to swing into riposte.

Zechs had been trained by one of the finest masters available. Miles Pargan had been three-time world champion before settling with his young family in the Sanq Kingdom, and as major domo of the royal household, he had been a fine, an excellent teacher for a young boy in need of discipline and activity.

“Hey.”

His crepe soles made the familiar fudda-fudda-fudda tempo on the floor as he shuffled back and forth through the small corridor. From the backfoot, he searched a simple but lightning-fast sequence of actions. The Hungarian quarte, the semi-circular search to seconde, then semi-circular search back to quarte. On the second round, he added the rapid lateral sixte-quarte, sixte-seconde.

“I said hey.”

Zechs exhaled heavily and lowered his foil. “Did you want something?”

It was Duo. They’d been alone on this cramped shuttle for two weeks and four ‘days’, each doing their best to absolutely ignore the other whenever possible. Except for the barely civil exchanges they managed in their small efficiency kitchen—‘Pass the pepper’ or ‘You can use the microwave first’—this qualified as the first time Duo had voluntarily spoken to him since they had boarded in Japan.

Duo opened his mouth, then closed it, abruptly, as if biting back whatever words had threatened escape. Zechs wiped sweat from his forehead and shook his hair loose from the elastic, waiting impatiently.

"Uh, yeah,” Duo finally answered. “I-- wondered if you had any reading material."

“Why didn't you just take what you wanted last time you ‘tidied’ my cabin?"

No, he hadn’t missed Duo’s incursions into what little private space he had. Duo had prowled their shuttle head to toe their first twenty-six hours. The contempt he held for his companion’s detective skills was as obvious as the fact that he didn’t bother to conceal his incursions into Zechs’ cabin. They’d started one day after Duo complained that he’d beaten all the games on the computer.

Reading material, Zechs repeated silently. Duo must have watched all his video collection, too.

Duo broke the silence once again, his mouth a tight little purse of displeasure.

"I don't know what language it's in," he said.

Zechs bent for the wipecloth he’d left with his gearbag, and cleaned his foil. “Russian,” he surmised. He’d brought a box of books, but only one in that language, strapped safely under his bed, where Duo had clearly been prying. "It's Russian."

"You're not Russian."

He sheathed his sword. "Treize was."

Duo rolled his eyes so hard he nearly swallowed them, and slouched into a comfortable crouch against the wall. The grey stretchsuit he wore in the ship’s arid environment caught at his pointy elbows and knees. He looked more than a bit like a prisoner, like that. Zechs began to strip his white exercise clothes, heedless of the lack of privacy; they had so little anyway, not even doors that shut, except on the accommodation in the rear. Duo produced a pack of chewing gum, watching incuriously as Zechs towelled himself dry.

Except that, for the third time, he was the one who breached the quiet. "So what is that book, anyway?” he asked. “'Mein Kampf' for Siberia?"

With an effort, Zechs ignored that. “Solzhenitsyn."

"Bless you."

He’d known it was coming before Duo said it. He scowled anyway. "You’re an ass." Duo rolled his eyes again, and blew a bubble with his gum. "You should read it,” Zechs said, and shimmied into his own stretchsuit. “You'd find it horrible and appropriate."

"Did you even listen to me? I don't know Russian."

"You're not stupid. You can learn."

Duo’s bubble popped viciously as he bit down.

"Afraid to try?" Zechs added, raising his eyebrows.

"You're trying to goad me into a fight over a language?"

“No, I'm trying to goad you to do something more challenging than dicking around with computer games and pulp fiction."

"Oh, I'm so sorry. I didn't realise my overwhelming ignorance was bothering you," Duo said, his tone saccharine sweet.

"Not as much as it bothers you, apparently." Zechs bundled his wet clothes, and gathered his gear together. "Come on." He turned up the corridor toward his cabin. "Bring my book."

There was only a stretch of three yards between his destination and the place he’d left Duo hunkered down. Whether Duo meant to disobey him or merely took an insultingly long time to debate the command, Zechs had time to stow his foil properly and hamper his dirtied linens. When he steeled himself to turn, fully expecting to find an empty passage, Duo was already returning, the old red-bound book held carefully between both hands.

“The galley,” Zechs pre-empted him. “If you please.”

Zechs had chosen the galley because it was the only truly common area available in the shuttle aside from the cockpit. The galley held their only luxuries for the nine month journey to Mars—a vid screen, a table, two cushioned chairs, and a couch almost large enough for someone Duo’s size to stretch out length-wise.

Which Duo did, promptly, when they entered. Zechs brushed Duo’s feet away, and pulled the table closer as he sat. He centred a pad of paper and a pencil between them, next to the book Duo dropped there not-quite-carelessly.

"You're going to have to pay attention,” Zechs told him. “Cyrillic is difficult."

"Do you think you can do this without insulting me every sentence? I think it'll have more impact if you save up for a few real zingers instead."

That was unreasonably rude, and probably fair. Zechs amended himself stiffly. "I think you're playing games, and this won't work if you don't try."

A look told him Duo was angry. They didn’t know each other well, not properly. Their personal association had not begun until the fledgling paramilitary force that was Preventers had solidified into an organised police unit. Duo had, perhaps naturally, partnered with Heero Yuy. Zechs did not imagine that anything good had been said about himself from that source. He’d replaced Yuy once on a stake-out, sitting for seventy-nine hours in a musty motel room with a nineteen year old Duo Maxwell, and walked away vowing to avoid any potential repeat of a contained space and a wise-cracking, easily bored teenager too clever for anyone’s good.

Yet here he was, sharing an extremely cramped shuttle for a length of time so consuming the mind could barely contemplate it—and that didn’t even include the journey back, when they’d completed their mission to the red planet.

It didn’t help that Duo was not nineteen anymore. At nineteen Duo had been very much a child, round-faced, slim, his physicality overwhelmed by his boundless personality. At twenty-six, he was an adult. The grey stretchsuit reduced him to lean, compact lines. The long braid he wore no longer leapt to capture the eye; Duo wore it covered with a folded kerchief these days, only the tail visible down the back when he turned. His cheeks had sharpened, his mouth firmed, exchanging wide-eyed prettiness for handsome maturity. He also smelled very good.

Zechs picked up the pencil, and began to write out the thirty-three letter Russian alphabet. Beneath each letter he approximated the sound with English. Duo leaned close, perhaps reluctantly, reading over his shoulder. "When he taught me...” Zechs came to the end, and pressed hard with the graphite point of the pencil. “I had a hard time with the characters. I was nine, and sitting still for more than a few minutes was difficult."

Duo said, “When I was nine, future OZ cadets were blowing artillery onto my home."

Zechs clenched his jaw on a swift retalation that was half indignation and half—shame. So much for a declaration of peace between them. But curiously, Duo’s head turned away, down, almost a pose of regret. His hands clenched on his knees, just visible in the corner of Zechs’ eyes, under the table.

“This is upright Cyrillic,” Zechs said. He cleared his throat with a sharp exhale, and shouldered on. “The italic is difficult. Some of the letters look too much like English, and they’re not equivalent. Repeat them after me.”

When they’d gone through twice, Duo mimicking him without further protest, Zechs wrote a word at the bottom of the pad, and angled it toward Duo. He watched Duo’s lips move as he put together the characters, and settled on a tentative pronunciation.

“Zek,” he said.

"Perfect." Zechs laid the pencil aside, and touched the book’s cover. "For a long time I thought that was my name."

"I don't understand. What's it mean?"

"Political prisoner. Solzhenitsyn's book is about the Russian GULags and their inmates." He laughed, until he realised the entertainment was forced, that the memory was hardly pleasing. "I think Treize was amused by the play on words." He bent his eyes back to the pad, not his companion.

"Yeah,” Duo said, lamely. “He sounds like a... fascinating man."

"He was about as you've probably imagined him." He pushed the pad at Duo. "Memorise those and we'll work more tomorrow."

"I already did." Duo tapped his temple. "Eidetic memory."

Zechs was unwillingly impressed. He guessed, suddenly, that Duo had rather a lot of secrets, not least of which that he was a great deal smarter than he let on. "That will make the process a great deal easier," he imagined. “It must come in handy.”

Duo fingered the edge of the pad. “Maybe you have a dictionary or something? Maybe the computer does.”

“Maybe.” Zechs hesitated. He retrieved the pencil, and began a list of words, writing each as they came to him. Simple words. Everyday civilities. Interrogatives. He wrote them first in Russian, then in the English pronunciation. Duo caught on to the idea, and muttered to himself as Zechs filled a page, casting about for vocabulary that didn’t require phrases, jargon, metaphor.

After ten minutes, Duo galloping hard on his heels sopping up his proferred knowledge like a sponge, Zechs again put the pencil aside. "This is no way to learn a language. Even with a photographic memory, all you’re achieving is—basic recognition. A vocabulary lesson."

"This seems fine." Duo played his chewing gum between forefinger and teeth as he shrugged. "The only way I ever learnt a language before was hearing it. Speaking it."

"How many languages do you have?"

"A few for real, and enough to get by in a couple more," was the evasive answer.

"I see."

It felt a bit like the moment of weightlessness after the shuttle left the bounds of gravity. The floor dropped out from under him. Those artful, careful little almost-lies were familiar entities. They’d been Treize’s way of life. Duo had no reason to lie to him, to withhold an honest answer, yet that was what he’d done. Sheer stubbornness? Mistrustfulness?

Or he was entirely wrong again. Duo tucked a knee to his chest, his eyes skipping over the pad without settling. A faint pink flush tainted his cheeks.

"I never... went to school, really,” he said, and Zechs finally registered his embarrassment. “I mean, I did, for a little while, but who the fuck needs art history?"

He was so disarmed he found himself chuckling. "No one I know."

"Exactly."

He turned to a new page, and wrote several more words in Russian. This time he gave the pad entirely to Duo. "Say the words,” he instructed. “I'll tell you what they mean."

Duo obeyed without question, eyes narrowed in concentration. “Ti takAya valnUyashaya,” he read slowly. He stumbled on the long last word, but recovered strongly, determindly. “Ti takAya Iskrennaya. Ti takAya ocharovAtel’naya.” He paused. “That’s… you are… something, isn’t it?” A smile of startled satisfaction hovered over his lips. "You said you'd tell me what they mean."

So he had. He wrote each translation, grateful for the shield of pale hair that offered at least minimal protection from Duo’s curiosity. You are exciting, he wrote, pronouncing it in Russian for Duo as he did. You are so sincere. You are so engaging. “Simple admiration forms,” he said, keeping his eyes on the tip of the pencil. “You’ve already figured out how easy they are to construct.”

He could feel Duo’s confusion, through that ineffective screen. It produced several seconds of awkward speechlessness. Zechs sat tensely, trying to prepare an explanation for choosing such odd phrases.

"Look,” Duo said. “I don't know what I did wrong, but whatever it was, would you tell me so we can be cool?"

"You did everything perfectly."

"You know, whatever." That suddenly, Duo was angry again, flipping moods like a switch of electricity. "I was making an effort, you know, and it's not like it sucked, but fine."

"What are you on about? You're performing far better than I imagined you would. We're working."

"Well, then what--" Duo clamped his mouth shut with a click of teeth. "Fine. I'm going to my cabin. I'll probably have dinner there."

"Why?"

"Suddenly you can't even look at me?"

He looked. He looked; a good, long, almost provocative look. Duo glared back, first. When neither of them broke the stare, Duo slowly flushed.

“I'm looking at you now," Zechs said quietly.

"Yeah. Okay." Duo was flustered, though he tried to hide it. He grabbed the book, and the pad. He left quickly, and in his wake, the pencil rolled off the table and fell beneath the couch.

 

**

 

Duo spent the night staring at his computer screen. He’d tried, at first, to interest himself in one of the games he’d brought, but he hadn’t lied when he told Zechs that he’d already beat all of them. The computer had a few, but they weren’t difficult enough to hold his attention.

Quiet hours had been in place for half the night before Duo gave in. He set the book upright on his desk. Until he’d left L2 and joined the Sweepers, Duo had never seen a real book, even at the Federation school he’d attended briefly. The Professor had kept his own library with him, but most of his books had been engineering, maths and theoretical physics that had been beyond Duo’s interest or ability. He had liked the heft of them, the way they smelled musty and wise, had liked to compare the different type face in each—the little details all missing from a digital text. The same details that had drawn him to choose this book from Zechs’ box, when there were plenty he could have read without such a bother. The corners of the cardboard cover were bent and soft from decades on an unknown shelf. The pages were all dog-eared, and notes swarmed over the margins, underlined whole paragraphs. There were pictures, too, photographs in faded sienna. The hard-eyed faces of the men in the pictures intrigued him. They wore tattered clothes, their arms spread for the camera, defiant and angry. The only word he could read in the captions was zek, that word Zechs had taught him. Prisoner.

He set the computer to search for a Russian-to-English dictionary. He had eighteen months, after all. And besides, if the book was so important to Zechs that he brought it with him on a two-year journey away from his home on Earth, Duo wanted to know why.

He startled himself awake from a doze in the morning when his chin hit his chest. His eyes felt grainy and his mouth was dry. He checked the time. It was well into morning, ship-time, and that meant hiding in his room was likely to be noticed. Duo rubbed his face, and gathered up the notes he’d made. He tucked the book under his arm, and a pencil over his ear, and left his cabin.

Zechs was in the corridor, up the other end by his own room. He was doing that fencing thing. Duo had seen Heero fence before, and once Heero and Quatre had engaged in a friendly duel that had gone just a little over the edge of competitive before Trowa had wisely called a halt. Zechs didn’t fence like them. Heero was pure power, using the delicate little sword like he was throwing a punch. Even to Duo’s untrained eye, Zechs exhibited more control. Every shuffling step was precisely placed, and every flick of the wrist was measured and tightly restrained. His hair swung in a tail behind him, flapping white-on-white against the cotton coat he wore.

They hadn’t had much room for luggage. Twenty kilos. Duo had spent most of his allotment on equipment for their mission, as Zechs had likely done. Duo wasn’t sure what a fencing sword and all the padded garments weighed, but it seemed like Zechs could have saved the room for more books. Duo had opted to make due with the shuttle’s built-in exercise options— one of the chairs in the common room converted to a bike, a treadmill folded out of the wall, and there were plenty of stable bars for pull-ups, exercises aimed at keeping bones and muscles healthy, not at building the body. They were also exercises that could be done without an opponent, unlike fencing.

Not that Zechs looked silly, exactly. Just—a little odd, concentrating so deeply on it, a frown digging furrows into his face.

Duo left him at it, stepping quietly away until he was sure Zechs hadn’t noticed him. He turned on the kettle for tea, and stuck a piece of bread in the toaster. He arranged his notes on the table, and put the book down square on top of them. The low light glowing from overhead threw the Cyrillic characters into sharp relief. Duo knew what they meant, now, could sound his way through most of the words, but comprehension was still frustratingly beyond reach. Whenever he tried to skip a page, or open to one later in the book, the words began to swim. Part of him acknowledged he was too tired to keep fighting something that hadn’t even existed in his world before yesterday. His pride was louder.

He almost didn’t notice when Zechs finally joined him. It was the smell of sweat that caught his attention, and he looked up to see Zechs walking past him to the cooler where they kept cold drinks. Perspiration made deep grey streaks down his chest and back, and under his arms as well. Duo tried to put his eyes back where they belonged when Zechs stripped off the cotton jacket. He was wearing just a brief white vest beneath, clinging to his skin.

So the man was handsome. A specimen, as Sally Po had once said, after three cosmopolitans and with Wufei glaring jealously, that proved God was a woman after all. Looks didn’t give a man class or charm. Or personality. It gave him dead Russian would-be tyrants who left behind emotionally loaded books about long-dead prisoners.

Zechs finished a bottle of juice, and rinsed it in their sink. "You didn't sleep at all, did you?" he said.

Duo put a hand to his forehead to block the sight, and pulled the book closer to the edge of the table. "I can sleep whenever. It's not like there's a law about when I have to."

"Pardon me, then." Zechs sat, straight-backed, in the chair opposite Duo. A moment passed in which Duo got the impression he was supposed to apologise for his rudeness. He didn’t. Zechs added, "You're not ready for that."

Duo grabbed his tea and drank half in big swallows. "Clearly.”

Zechs reached over the table. He turned the book back to the first page of the introduction. "Read it to me. Don't translate; just read."

Was Zechs mocking him? Duo searched his face suspiciously. He’d thought that yesterday, too, when Zechs had written down those lines about sincerity and excitement, but he hadn’t been sure enough to call him on it. Zechs gave no expression. His eyes were always cool and level, his face dead, as if someone had disconnected the nerves. Duo had never seen him smile, even when he laughed.

Duo cleared his throat, and began to read.

"Don't worry about the accent,” Zechs interrupted, almost immediately. “Not yet. Just pronounce the words."

It was on his lips to retort that he was trying. He didn’t. He pressed his lips tightly together, and continued.

"Stop."

"Now what?"

“How much of that did you understand?" Zechs tapped Duo’s notes.

"Maybe a third. I don't have the verb forms down."

"Then you've done very well.” The compliment caught Duo by surprise. Zechs didn’t sound satisfied, for one thing. He could have been remarking on the weather. “Let's work on this together," he said then.

Duo hadn’t been entirely sure that offer was going to be made again. Whatever patience Zechs had shown or him the day before might have been a fluke. “Really?” he was saying, before he could censor himself. “It’s okay if you don’t. People are always promising me things they don’t mean.” He hesitated, and made what he considered a generous confession. “I know I’m a little much for most, even my friends.”

“I didn’t make a promise to pacify you.” Zechs picked up the book, his fingers running over the engraved title. The gold leaf there had faded—Duo had found himself making that exact gesture, too, during the night. Arkhipelag GULag.

Zechs opened the book, and began to read. He was husky at first, but that was just what his voice sounded like, when he was self-conscious—and Duo tried not to remember why he knew that. He concentrated on the words as Zechs read them, in English, the first coherent reading of the book Duo had had.

“How do people get to this Archipelago?” Zechs read. “Hour by hour planes fly there, ships steer their course there, and trains thunder off to it—but all with nary a mark on them to tell of their destination. And at ticket windows or travel bureaus for Soviet or foreign tourists the employees would be astounded if you asked for a ticket to go there. They have never heard of the Archipelago as a whole or of any of its innumerable islands.

Those who go to the Archipelago to administer it get there via the training schools of the Ministry of Internal Affairs.

Those who go there to be guards are conscripted by the military conscription centres.

Those who, like you and me, dear reader, go there to die, must go there solely and compulsorily via arrest.

Arrest! Need it be said that it is a breaking point in your life, a lightning bolt which has scored a direct hit on you? That it is an unassimilable spiritual earthquake not every person can cope with, as a result of which people often slide into insanity?

The Universe has as many different centres as there are living beings in it. Each of us is a centre of the Universe, and that Universe is shattered when they hiss at you, You are under arrest.”

The memory rose unbidden. They were hauling him out of his Gundam, and he was injured, barely conscious. Duo glanced away from Zechs, his focus broken and wavering. He breathed carefully through his nose.

“Heavy material,” he managed, and was glad his voice was calm.

“Very grim. Yes." Zechs’ eyes slanted away from his, to the page still upturned. "A difficult slog. Particularly for people like us."

"It reads like an instruction manual.” Duo searched for a joke, and pulled a smile up out of somewhere. “I should send it to L2 bureaucracy."

"I believe that qualifies as an improvement." The corner of Zechs’ mouth turned up.

He might have spent the night trying to read that damn book, but now that he knew more what it was about, he wasn’t sure he wanted to go any further with it. It was bound to lead them into dangerous territory, considering they’d once been enemies. And if not precisely dangerous, then to dangerously private, personal things. Duo knew better than most what silence and suggestion lead to. He didn’t like the company of his ghosts, and he didn’t plan on introducing them around to Zechs.

“Why did you take this assignment?” Zechs asked suddenly.

He’d volunteered for it, actually. Duo chose not to explain that. Instead, he said, quite truthfully, “I’ve never turned down a mission.”

“You didn’t have anything better to do with two years?”

“Not particularly.”

Zechs’ eyes went narrow and calculating. "I have a hard time swallowing that, Duo."

"The trick is to open real wide and not gag on it."

That was a victory, after what Zechs had done to him yesteday with the pretty flattery and that look Duo sill hadn’t sorted out. The other man turned a bit red, and he wasn’t wearing nearly enough clothing to hide it. The blush went clear down his chest.

“Do you have to make a joke out of every genuine conversation?" Zechs demanded.

Heero liked to ask that, too. And Wufei. Quatre always laughed at his jokes, though, and Trowa never laughed, but he never told Duo to stop, either. "I like jokes,” Duo said. “I like sex, for that matter, and eighteen months is a long time to go without either."

"Is that what this is about?” It was hard to decipher that minute expression on Zechs’ face, but Duo thought it was disgust. “You're horny."

"Oh, God, forget I said anything. I don't even want to touch that with you."

"I don't doubt that."

Silence, and reticence, and that armour of arrogance meant kept everyone at bay.

He was the one who spoke first. His own voice, unwontedly tentative, proffered, "People think I'm-- an ignorant loud-mouth. They won't work with me. I can't get preferred mission status, even though I have the scores and a recommendation. When I partnered Heero, all that happened was I dragged him down. I've been a Preventer for nine years, and I've never been promoted." He fiddled with his pencil. “I know it shouldn’t matter, but it does."

"They're stupid to believe that,” Zechs answered softly. “Or easily deluded by what they see when they look at you. I never thought you were stupid or ignorant. I watched you."

"Me?" The implication confused him, except for the hot little tingle along his collar that knew exactly what that meant. He said, "I guess it was your job to know who all of us were."

"Of course," Zechs said.

Duo glanced away, then back, through just the corner of his vision. It cast Zechs in a golden halo that was flattering and diffusive.

"I was different,” Duo said. “I am."

"Yes."

 

**

 

“I was different,” Duo said. “I am.”

Yes, he was. Different not just among nameless thousands who were all interchangeable pawns. Different even in that highly select group of men and women who had risen to the top by the skill of their hands, their unusual intelligence, their extraordinary bravery. Ordinary did not describe someone who at fifteen could pilot Gundams—launch himself to Earth alone against an overwhelmingly more powerful enemy. Someone who walked away from torture at the age of fifteen didn’t become a Preventer in the first place, didn’t wait politely for nine years while his superiors, the same people who had held the clubs to him once upon a time, passed him over. Duo could have, maybe should have, turned into a victim, or a suicide bomber, or a sociopath. He hadn’t. He endured. There was a centre in him that burned, and protected itself. Zechs didn’t know if it was strength, or stubbornness, or just perversity, but the end result was that Duo Maxwell had decided he was indestructible, and he didn’t accept anything less. It just made him hard to work with.

Duo was gazing at him. There was a question in his eyes, but he didn’t speak it.

Zechs reached a fingertip to the cover of the Solzhenitsyn. "I have books in English. They’d be an easier read, and certainly less… Less a reminder of the past."

Duo chewed his lower lip. Zechs didn’t think he was aware of that habit, that it left the soft flesh raw and flushed. He didn’t answer immediately, and Zechs supposed that was answer enough.

Then-- “No,” Duo decided. “It’s just a book. I’m not going to run from the written word.”

“I didn’t think you would.”

“Then why’d you ask?” Duo looked at him, and a strange, crooked smile formed on his mouth. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you the way to a man’s heart is whiskey and whispers, not depressing Russian literature?”

That was just possibly—coy. Zechs paused, and then asked him, “Is your heart vulnerable to anything I might offer?”

He’d caught Duo off guard, somehow. “Zechs…”

Duo’s teeth bit hard into his lip. He left the table, but he didn’t go far. He bent to one of the knee-high cabinets under the sink, and came back with a pop-top can of fizzy soda. His plait slipped over his shoulder as he straightened. He opened the can, and sipped from it.

When he turned, he seemed to have settled something in his own mind. He said, “You’re used to getting your own way, aren’t you?”

“Usually, yes,” Zechs admitted. He stood, too. Duo didn’t try to evade him when he slowly blocked him against the counter. He reached out again, but this time to touch Duo’s hair. The blue kerchief over his scalp hid the soft fringe Zechs could see in memory, but the braid over his shoulder felt perversely strong and delicate at once, silky in its tight weave, and cool.

Duo blinked once. "Touching me there, kind of, aren't you?" But though his braid slipped through Zechs' fingers, Duo didn’t pull away.

He curled his hand around it loosely. "Should I not?"

"It's okay."

The plait was, perhaps, thinner than he remembered, and shorter. Hadn’t it once swung to his lower back? Zechs wondered what had damaged it, or prompted Duo to cut it. "You should wear it loose from time to time," he murmured. “This braid—it’s a sin.”

"Still kind of touching me there."

He followed the plait up to Duo’s neck. "Is this out of bounds too?"

Duo met that with a stare that knew what was coming and dared him to try. "No," he said.

"You set the boundaries, Duo." Two weeks of aggression and acrimony, and in barely twelve hours they were at a break point. He traced the skin above Duo’s collar, side to side, then dipped his thumb under the fabric. He felt minute vibrations as Duo spoke again.

“Thought you don’t like me.”

“I like you.”

His adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. "You did a lot of ignoring me, considering."

"You can't stand me." He dipped his index finger into the hollow of Duo's throat, then whispered it away.

Silence hung on a precipice while Duo left him hanging.

Then Duo smirked. "Are you going to kiss me or not?"

Zechs leant down slowly. He pressed his mouth, just barely parted, to Duo’s. He felt a faint warm exhale, scented like Duo’s mint tea, and chased it with the tip of his tongue through Duo’s lips. Duo met it with his, massaging lightly. It was a heady thing. That chapped lower lip was exactly as he had imagined, just a little rough. He felt a scrape of teeth, and then he retreated.

Duo followed after him, an automatic curl of his body, his eyes still closed. He caught himself, though, and stood still.

Zechs hesitated. There was still time to walk away, to see if something developed naturally out of this risk they’d just taken together—friendship, maybe, or even just understanding, something that wasn’t like that instinct Duo had just displayed. Or they could follow this to the one conclusion that would be entirely natural.

He wrapped his arm about Duo’s waist and held him close. Duo’s head tilted tensely up to meet his eyes. His whole body was taut, almost trembling.

He cupped Duo’s face and kissed him again. He sucked hard on Duo’s lower lip until it tasted wet, and then he drove his tongue into Duo’s mouth again. Duo swayed with the force of it. He caught his arm around Zechs’ neck. It brought them chest to chest, and something snapped.

The kiss went wild and fiery. Chaotic. They bumped into the wall before he realised they’d moved. Duo wrestled him for control of it, making fists in his hair, arching up against him. He’d never really seen Duo as small, precisely, but he felt like it, from the bony protrusion of his hips under the thin stretch of his suit to the way his waist seemed to disappear under Zechs’ palms, but it was still a fair fight. Duo was all teeth and attack, nothing soft and romantic. Zechs ground a slow rhythm into him, shuddering at every rub against his groin as the growing sensation changed to one of leaking.

Duo wormed a hand beneath his vest. He fumbled a path upward, in his navel, scratching his nipple. When he squeezed it hard, Zechs had to wrench his head away to breathe. It was almost painful, it so intensely pleasurable. He pulled at the fastenings on Duo’s suit, barely hearing the rip of it as he plunged his hand inside. He met the head of Duo’s erection, slick and spongy, and Duo gasped out a needy little noise.

"If we don't stop, we'll be fucking right here," Zechs whispered. He closed his lips on Duo’s earlobe as he rolled Duo’s cockhead beneath his thumb.

"I'm perfe-- perfectly fine with that." Duo rocked up into his grip. "My cabin's closest, else."

"Tell me you brought lube."

They both laughed at that. Duo was the one who broke away, half undressed already, his mouth and chin red from the kissing. "Come on," he said, and lead the way up the corridor to his cabin.

The cabins were small, meant mainly for sleeping. With the two of them inside, it felt like little more than a closet. Zechs was barely cognizant of it. He fell backwards onto the bunk, dragging Duo down with him. Duo swarmed on him from above, drowning him with deep dragging kisses while he jerked at Zechs’ clothes. Zechs helped him shed the stretchsuit, peeling it off one limb at a time before throwing it aside. Duo knocked over his bedside lamp with an errant elbow, and cursed. He leaned over the bed to fix it as Zechs kicked off his shoes and stockings. Duo came back with a little container of lotion, a sheepish grin tugging at his mouth as he handed it over.

They were both naked. Zechs smeared a palmful of cold liniment on himself, and wiped his hand on his thigh. Duo straddled him.

“Is this all right?” Zechs asked.

Duo’s answer was five fingers holding him in place while he scooted backwards into position. He bent his head low to kiss Zechs roughly. Zechs closed his eyes. He felt the press of Duo’s buttocks against his head, and then muscle bearing down on him. The grip of Duo’s fist became the tight squeeze of a feverishly hot tunnel.

Duo panted softly against his cheek. They were going too fast, Zechs thought, but it was Duo taking the lead now. He rubbed Duo’s back as they both adjusted. In only a few moments, Duo began to rock slightly, his hands planted on either side of Zechs’ head. Zechs slipped away the kerchief, and Duo’s hair, soft and teasing, fell down to his face. Zechs inhaled the scent of summer grass.

If Duo noticed, he didn’t care. He rose higher on his knees, and sat hard. The third time, he leaned back, instead, and Zechs slid deeper inside him. He watched Duo’s face—eyes slitted in concentration that became abandon, as his movements gained a frantic edge—and grabbed Duo’s bobbing erection. It swelled in palm, flushed and wet.

Duo’s mouth hung open. His hand trembled when it scrabbled to a heavy rest on his shoulder.

Zechs sat up on his elbows and caught him into a hard, hungry kiss. Duo groaned into his mouth and clutched him clumsily. Zechs held him close and carefully rolled them. When Duo lay on his back, damp thighs clinging to him, Zechs dug a knee into the mattress, and slammed into him. Duo went rigid and spasming. Zechs did it again, and counted out a rhythm until his body knew it every time. Duo’s blunt fingernails made furrows in his back, but he felt no pain, just an increasing urgency and a primal demand. He bit Duo’s neck, and growled, “Let it go."

"You close?" Duo whispered anxiously.

Perilously. Duo’s legs tightened around him. His insides clamped wildly, and then he was jerking like a puppet on strings while the spurts of his orgasm spattered Zechs across the chest. Nails in his skin dragged him down, and Zechs bit Duo’s throat again the weightless drop began. He heard himself cry out, and saw white explosions against his eyelids as the firestorm hit him.

It was Duo who moved first. He wriggled out from under Zechs, shoving when Zechs didn’t move fast enough. Zechs gave him a little space to lie flat, though the bunk was not, short-sightedly, built for two. He could feel Duo drawing away in another sense; he didn’t look at Zechs directly, for one, and he lay on his belly, almost as if protecting his vulnerable front. He didn’t resist when Zechs traced the bumps of his spine, though, and Zechs supposed that was something.

When his breathing had settled, Duo sat up. He dug in his bedside drawer, and came back with a brush. Zechs settled himself on a pillow to watch as Duo struggled to untangle the braid—it had suffered from their enthusiasm.

He’d been right about the hair, at least. It was still crimped from the braid, subtle lowlights making shadows of chocolaty darkness down his pale back. Zechs had always been a little vain of his own hair, but Duo’s was an unaffected ornament, a natural extension of his self.

He sat up, settling his legs on either side of Duo’s. It brought them chest to back, and Duo tensed. Zechs rested his hands on Duo’s hips.

“May I?" he asked softly.

Duo’s back had gone rigid. Zechs gave him time to think about it. Even so, Duo sounded, at best, reluctant. He said, "I guess."

He reached slowly, in case Duo changed his mind. He combed his fingers gently through Duo’s hair, separating the three threads of the plait. He went back and started again, brushing delicately through from the the base of Duo’s neck to the ends halfway down his back, stroking over skin as well. Duo’s head bent just a little, following his progress. Zechs pressed his nose to Duo’s nape. To that grassy smell, baked summer fields. On this shuttle headed far away from Earth, he thought, that scent was even more precious.

"You have no idea how beautiful you are, do you?" he whispered.

Duo turned his head away. "I don't like flattery," he said flatly.

“Neither do I."

He’d mis-stepped. Duo scooted to the edge of the mattress, away from the touch of their thighs, and jerked his hair over his shoulder. He attacked it with a few harsh strokes of his brush, and began to braid it up again.

"Let me," Zechs tried.

"No."

"Why not?"

Duo finished the braid and pulled an elastic from the handle of the brush to wrap it off. It was sloppily done, and carted sharply to the right. He bent to the floor for his suit and began to dress. “Because,” he said, “I said so, and it's mine."

"I see.” He did. Hell, he thought. He should have been stronger than his own hormones. Taking Duo to bed risked everything. The mission, at the least. His sanity, certainly. Duo would insist they play by his rules, or not at all. That was both familiar and uncomfortable.

He found his pants hanging off the edge of the bed, and stepped into them. His stockings and shoes, he simply gathered up to carry with him. “And now you'll run away," he surmised. “As far from me as you can.”

"It's a fucking shuttle, where am I running to?" Duo faced him. His fingers slowed on the fastenings of his suit. Slowly, a tiny little smile bloomed on his lips. "You're just a big bad wolf, aren't you?"

"You seem to think so," Zechs muttered.

Duo tossed the hairbrush at him. "Maybe I'm just not a romantic.” His eyes glittered. “So, what do people usually say at this part? ‘Thanks for the sex’? ‘Next time we need to use more lube—‘"

Zechs put the brush on the table, and stood. "You're welcome."

Duo’s face went still. "One time event, then."

"That would be your call, wouldn't it?"

Duo grunted. He slumped back into his lone desk chair, legs spread, mouth sullen. "We're on this tin can for a long time,” he said, in a hard little voice. “It was crap enough for two weeks. There's no reason for us to spend all of it not talking, and there's definitely no reason for us to spend all of it not screwing, but it doesn't make us like each other any better than we did yesterday. And if you think it does, trust me, the afterglow fades."

It seemed a cold-blooded arrangement. He was a little shocked that Duo had suggested it. There had been rumours, yes, among the Preventers, but he hadn’t ever believed them. And the Duo who an hour ago had confessed so shame-faced that he cared for the good opinion of his fellows was not the same person now proposing they fuck for the sake of passing time.

“I suppose I’d be foolish to turn you down,” he said stiffly. “If only to… keep the boredom at bay.”

Duo’s eyes slid away, suddenly, while he crossed his arms over his chest. He bit down on that lower lip, and said, “You still gonna help me with the book?”

In two weeks they’d barely exchanged two words, and now Zechs had the feeling that despite everything they’d done, he understood even less than he had before.

“Of course,” he agreed.


	2. Two

Duo rubbed his eyes, and sat back to retie his headband. A low-grade headache ate at the back of his skull, refusing to be alleviated by the pain pill he’d swallowed an hour ago.

The soft squeak of the water recycler told him when Zechs had made it out of bed. They kept different schedules, usually, simple ship procedure to ensure there was always someone awake to deal with emergencies. Zechs, like most Earth-born who flew space flights, preferred a twenty-and-six rotation. Duo, like most colonials, slept twelve for every forty. For the most part, they had managed not to disturb each other much—or at least, had agreed not to acknowledge any minor annoyances when they occurred.

Like the fencing, every morning. Like the whine of the pipes at odd times. They ate separately, usually, and slept alone, for the most part, and for a few short hours here and there, they read the book together.

His vocabulary had taken wide strides forward since the first page of random words Zechs had given him. Duo occupied his quiet hours with a dictionary downloaded from the computer, slogging through letter by letter. He hadn’t lied about his eidetic memory, but he understood more than most the limitations of recall when what was needed was understanding. Duo had never applied himself to systematic study of anything but the mathematics he’d needed to pilot his Gundam, and he was finding it difficult. At least with maths, he’d known what the specific goal was, had had a tangible reward of seeing his own progressively more accomplished skills in flying. Of the five—six, if you counted Zechs Merquise, and Duo reluctantly did—living men to pilot Gundams, Duo could unabashedly claim to be the best. Just as Quatre was the smartest, and Heero the strongest. Everyone had a point of excellence. Given the advantage, Duo was confident in his own.

Except that he didn’t have the advantage, here. Maybe Heero had enough—class, and power, to hold up to someone like Zechs. Duo knew he didn’t.

The shower shut off a precise five minutes later. They observed the limits on the recyclers, Zechs by taking short showers every day, and Duo by enjoying a luxurious long one every few days. Duo had never lived in such close contact with someone so obstinately an Earther. It was interesting, from a purely academic point of view. Other things were just bothersome. Zechs would go to the galley, next, and waste his time cooking a real meal. Duo had no problem relying on a liquid diet of nutrient shakes. He didn’t see how you could get tired of something that didn’t have a taste.

The little rap on his portal surprised him out of staring at the book. “Hey,” Duo said, looking up.

Zechs nodded to him, in that oddly formal way he seemed to think constituted informality. “Good morning.”

“Yeah. Morning.”

Zechs was towelling his long hair dry. It dripped down his sleeveless vest. “Join me for breakfast?”

Powdered eggs, dried fish, and rice. Every morning.

Duo went back to his work, ostentatiously taking up a ‘study’ pose. “Nah,” he said. “I think I’ll work a little longer.”

That earned him a momentary silence. Then Zechs entered his cabin, took a seat on the edge of Duo’s bed.

Well, all right. They’d slept together there, so technically, Duo supposed, there was an open invitation to enter as he pleased, but Zechs hadn’t exactly asked, and he hadn’t been back in since the week before, and for that matter he hadn’t asked Duo to sleep with him again. Which stung, a little. Perhaps more than a little.

"You're trying too hard,” Zechs said. He draped his towel over his shoulders, and gestured at Duo’s desk of papers. “Why?"

Duo turned his chair to face the man. "What else do I have to do?" he shrugged.

"I understand that you wish to learn, but you're behaving as if you have something to prove."

Duo laughed at that. "Don't I always?" he returned.

Zechs lifted his muscular shoulders in a small shrug. "Why do you?"

More talking than they’d done since they’d been doing the horizontal, too. Duo wondered why now. He pulled his bare feet up to the seat of his chair, hugging his knees close to his chest.

"Because everyone, you included, think I'm some kind of-- goof off,” he said. He returned the shrug. “I'm smart. And I guess I'll never be done proving that, so I might as well do it as fast as I can, right?"

A pale eyebrow might have lifted a millimetre. "You've got nothing to prove to anyone. Except, maybe, yourself."

"Bullshit,” Duo said, and didn’t even bother to elaborate on the obvious.

Maybe Zechs realised it was obvious, too. He picked up Duo’s hairbrush, but didn’t use it. He rubbed his thumb over the soft bristles. "It's not because you're perceived to be stupid, you realise," he answered Duo finally. "You're too-- nice. Except when you're not. And then you're pissing people off."

Nice. Except when he wasn’t. Duo didn’t know what to make of that; no-one had ever called him that before. And then taken it back immediately. Bemused, he said, "All that, and we've only been cooped up together for three weeks. What are you going to think nine months from now?"

A hint of a line formed at the side of Zechs’ mouth. It might have been amusement. "We can turn back."

Duo heaved a sigh, and dropped his feet back to the floor. “Look, my concentration’s shot anyway. You don’t need to cook for me, though. I’ll just have a tea. You know--”

Zechs was standing. He paused, halfway to his feet.

Duo chewed his lip. “I know I said we don’t have to like each other to fuck, but now we’re, well, we’re not really doing either.”

"I like you," Zechs said.

Duo raised his own eyebrows. "No, you don't."

"You're not allowed to say so."

He laughed at that. "Why?"

"You don't know what's in my heart."

"I know what's on your face,” Duo corrected him.

"You don't know that either.” He actually sounded aggreived. "You don't know me at all, Duo. You look at me and see OZ. Nothing more."

"Not 'nothing more'. There's a healthy dose of White Fang, and at least a little Agent Wind."

"And all of these are the same sort of man. An OZzie in a different uniform."

Now who had something to prove? Though Zechs was right, at the base of it. Duo sucked on his lower lip, and surrendered with another sigh. He said, "All right,” he surrendered. “Lead me to the chow.” He grabbed his steadily increasing pile of notes from the desk, and stood.

Zechs didn’t leave the portal as Duo came to it. His skin still glowed just slightly from the heat of the water, and it looked—well, soft. It looked like it might taste good.

And when Duo managed to drag his eyes off Zechs’ skin and up to his eyes, he rather imagined he was not the only person plagued with such thoughts. Duo was suddenly glad he’d taken his own shower just the evening before.

Zechs exhaled heavily. He reached out for Duo’s waist and snagged him close. Duo didn’t know how he hadn’t seen it coming or where his famous cat-feet had deserted him to, but he went right off-balance and tumbled into Zechs’ chest. Damn, that man was fast.

And slow. Why wait a week if he really did want it?

“Guess we’re eating in,” Duo said. He pitched his voice self-consciously lower; it didn’t seem right to speak at volume, pressed so close like this. He had to tilt his head back to see Zechs’ face, one of those indecipherable expressions gazing back down at him. Duo skimmed a tentative hand up the slender indentation of Zechs’ spine.

His answer was Zechs lowering his head to brush his lips over Duo’s neck. Duo closed his eyes on the warm, tickling sensation, letting his pulse jump, letting his breath catch.

“I want you,” Zechs whispered.

Well. At least he’d made up his mind about it.

They kissed all the way in a circle before Zechs pushed him against the wall. It required Duo to strain up to Zechs’ height, and Zechs had to spread his legs and bend down to him. It was worth it. Zechs was the perfect kisser, aggressive but considerate, and his hands stayed north of the border in a way that still suggested where they wanted to be playing. Duo teased him with quick nips that turned feverish, and soon Zechs was rocking against him, grinding a rhythm out that only added to fire.

The third time Duo had to pause to pick a long blond hair from between their lips, he added a gentle push of his hands on Zechs’s hips. Immediately Zechs stepped back, giving him a few inches of space by taking up his stance against the doorframe again.

“Breakfast, then,” he said.

“Don’t—“ Duo started, and hesitated on the right words. “Pull back from me.”

“I won’t.” As quick as he’d been to assume rejection, Zechs just as easily accepted reassurance. He traced the vee-neck of Duo’s jumpsuit and fit his thumb into the hollow between Duo’s collar bones. “I can’t seem to do that.”

Duo quirked a smile. “There are other places than the wall to kiss me.”

“Kitchen table’s hard, and your bed’s small.”

Duo laughed. He circled Zechs’ wrist and followed it down the golden hairs to the crease of his elbow. He’d been right. Zechs had great skin. He measured out Zechs’ biceps in fingertips, and Zechs found the pull-tab of his suit and began to inch it down.

“You’re pretty hot when you do that not-looking-away thing,” Duo murmured.

Zechs coloured, just a little. “Thank you.”

“And that was cute.”

“Stop it.”

Oh. Duo sucked on his lower lip, wondering what in particular he’d done to earn back the angry teacher tone. “You’re the boss, I guess,” he said finally.

Zechs pulled down on his zip and bared his chest, then pressed a firm kiss to his mouth. “You have me off-balance all the bloody time, Duo,” he complained, and his fingers spread wide over Duo’s sternum, curled up to his throat. The next kiss was deeper, and the one after that just went on without ending, like Zechs was trying to drain him dry. “Bed,” Zechs whispered, or maybe didn’t say aloud at all, but suddenly they were there. Duo reached for his duvet and fumbled it down out of the way. He finally broke the kiss, and pretended to model the bed.

“If it meets your satisfaction, sir?” he asked.

He finally got a genuine laugh, if a quiet one. Zechs cupped his cheek. “Let’s give it a try,” he replied, and gave Duo a playful shove backward onto it. Duo didn’t even bounce when he landed, the mattress was so thin, and they both laughed again at that. Zechs came down after him, pinning Duo back and holding his wrists down.

“You’re trapped now,” he said.

“So it seems.” Duo felt a grin threatening, and bit his lip.

Zechs rocked his hips. “What will you do?”

“Good question.” God, Duo realised; they were having fun. He spread his legs wide, and Zechs settled closer between them, so their groins brushed. “I think I might have to resign myself to the inevitable.”

“Certainly easier that way.”

“So… if I’m the prisoner… I guess you’re my prison guard. What kind of dire abuse can I expect?”

That went down like a bucket of ice water. Zechs faltered.

Duo let his breath out in a hard sigh. “Sorry,” he said. “That sounded sexier in my head.”

“No, it—it was fine.”

Except for the glaring reminder of exactly what pitfalls waited for two ex-enemies feeling their way across the minefield. Who even knew if it was worth it.

“Flirting may be too advanced for us,” Duo decided.

“We’ve had sex,” Zechs pointed out, rather grouchily. “We ought to be capable of it.”

“Well, don’t get ahead of yourself there, big boy.”

“I apologise.” Zechs sighed, too, and rolled off of Duo. “Maybe we can try again later.”

He almost protested. He did. But the impulse passed, and he laughed instead, and zipped his suit closed. “Yeah. Okay.”

“What’s funny?”

“I’d say you, Mr Darcy, but you don’t like to be laughed at.”

“Mr Darcy?” Zechs repeated disbelievingly.

“See, I can read.”

Zechs’ fingers curled around Duo’s wrist. They stroked, and then tightened, and he pulled Duo to his feet. “I’m not sure I like the reference entirely,” he said good-naturedly.

Duo let himself be hauled off the bed, a little amused at the way Zechs seemed to like doing things like that. On the whole, he thought he might not mind too much.

“We have work to do,” Zechs reminded him.

“All right then,” Duo agreed. “And food.”

“And food.”

 

**

 

Duo perched on the table top as Zechs added water to a packet of dried eggs and heated a pan for cooking. “Scrambled?” he asked. “Or I can try an omelette. There’s peppers and cheese.”

“Why not,” Duo said.

Zechs glanced back at him. Duo kicked his legs idly, and his fingers drummed the counter, as if he couldn’t bring himself to sit still. He willingly passed dried peppers and plates when Zechs requested them.

“I think I’m just going to walk about naked from now on,” Duo announced, tapping his knee with a fork.

That came accompanied by an image that was not precisely new fodder for Zechs’ imagination. He stirred the eggs until they frothed. “May I ask why?”

“Well, the whole point of wearing this suit is to be as naked as possible without offending your shipmates,” Duo said, tugging at the thin fabric over his stomach. He arched an eyebrow. “But I don’t think you’d mind all that much. Besides, it would cut out that flirtation handicap.”

Zechs twitched back his drying hair. “You’ll catch cold.”

Duo nudged the back of his thigh with a bare foot. “You’re supposed to say, ‘Great idea, Duo!’ And drool a bit.”

“Oh, I see. Great idea, Duo!” He sliced a desiccated pepper in half and pried loose the seed-covered stem inside. “But I’m not going to drool. That’s disgusting.”

“Spit’s natural. And you wouldn’t mind so much if I was slobbering all over Little Darcy.”

Zechs made a face at that. “Slobbering? Not an erotic word.”

Duo’s toes went seeking between his legs again. “The word’s not the part that’s supposed to be erotic,” he said.

Zechs set down his knife, and faced Duo. Who looked back at him, hard-eyed and with a glint there of something else, lurking just under the surface. Half his mouth curved in a smile, and the rest just looked dangerous.

“I can’t keep up with you,” Zechs admitted.

“Really?” Duo’s shrug was barbed. “You’re not that much older.”

There was really only one answer to that.

Duo’s mouth was hot and his body seemed to surge up against Zechs’ when Zechs levelled him back onto the table. He held Duo down by the shoulders, then by the hips, and then he unzipped Duo’s suit from collar to groin with one quick jerk of his hand. The zip on his own trousers took even less time.

“Yes,” Duo whispered. The table squeaked in protest as Zechs added his weight to Duo’s, but it held. He just remembered to turn off the heater, and then he was back on Duo, helping him strip out of the clinging suit. Duo took him the hair and cleverly twisted it back, then held it there while they kissed. Duo wormed Zechs out of his trousers with the heels of his feet and impatient grunts.

Lubricant. Duo’s cabin was impossibly far away and the lotion hadn’t been in obvious sight, anyway. Zechs was reaching for the butter as soon as the idea occurred to him. It was slick and still cold, gobbing between his fingers.

Duo saw it coming. “Oh, you are not putting that—“

“It’s slippery.” He caught Duo’s lower lip between his teeth, and proved it. He was in Duo’s body so fast that he cut off any reply Duo might have made, or he was deafened by the rushing wind in his own ears. Everything disappeared for an instant—the galley, the ship, all the little noises he’d slowly become used to—everything disappeared but Duo’s legs around his hips and Duo’s heat.

Duo had lost hold of Zechs hair. It went tumbling between them. Duo clung to Zechs by the neck, arched against him, still and tense.

Zechs curled his buttery fingers around Duo’s cock and jerked. He did it again, and then he rocked his hips. Duo’s body swayed with him. He braced himself on the table, and thrust hard.

This wasn’t the urgent, half-angry sex they’d had before. This felt different. Raw, and hungry. Maybe he’d been a fool to let a week go by, but now that they were back here, melded like this, it made the wait worthwhile.

Duo went skidding over the table top when Zechs pushed into him again. Zechs raked his torso with his nails, leaving faint red scratches behind, while Duo hissed and squirmed. Their hips met hard enough to sting. Zechs bent his head and latched onto one of Duo’s brown nipples and then the other. When they peaked and pebbled in his mouth, he bit down. He would have done it again, but Duo’s body, his whole body flinched back.

There was no way of knowing if that had been pleasure or pain. Zechs hesitated.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“S’fine.” Duo offered a twitch of a smile in a taut face. “Keep going.”

He did. He was more careful this time, rubbing one nipple with his thumb while he licked the other, and slowed the tempo of their hips. Duo was curled around him, one arm stretched back to balance against the wall, and the table shivered just slightly every time they moved. He tried his nails on Duo’s skin again, lightly, and got a fitful toss of Duo’s head in answer.

Something was more wrong than he’d recognised. He supported Duo with an arm under his back and stood still.

He wasn’t so lost to the moment that he couldn’t see Duo was not all there with him. At first he thought he’d been too rough, that Duo was pained. But the flush that came with good sex was absent, and instead Duo's skin was pale, too cool to the touch. His eyes, usually so sharply aware, were distant, unfocussed. The deep violet blue was too clouded to be reflecting desire.

“We can stop,” he whispered.

Duo wrestled with it. For once, Zechs understood every thought crossing his face. He nodded ‘yes.’

Zechs made extra effort to pull out as smoothly as possible. He gathered Duo close and helped him off the table.

“Sorry,” Duo muttered.

“My fault.”

“It wasn’t.”

“I should have been more—“

“I said it wasn’t.” Duo squirmed loose from his arms. He picked up his suit, and then the dish towel, and passed it to Zechs.

Zechs wiped himself and wadded the towel. Then he unballed it, and folded it carefully over the stains.

Duo had cleaned himself as well with a fresh towel. He tossed it into the sink and ran water over it.

He felt—shocked at himself. No—disgusted. Hurting a lover was an unconscionable act. It left him nauseous. Guilty. He’d been on the other end of it and knew how debasing it was. He’d thought he had a better sense of his actions than that.

“I said you were fine,” Duo interrupted his thoughts forcefully. “Jesus, Zechs, if you’d hurt me, I’d hurt back, at the least.”

“I did hurt you,” Zechs pointed out. “I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t lie about it to save my feelings.”

“I’m not gonna lie about something as stupid as sex,” Duo snapped. He dressed himself quickly and zipped his suit closed. “I just wasn’t as ready as I thought. It’s on me this time. You can take the blame the next time it sucks.”

“If you like,” Zechs said stiffly. He fastened his trousers. “I would—“

“Fuck,” Duo said. He put a fist in Zechs’ hair and dragged him down. Their teeth clashed and Duo’s tongue was in his mouth. Then Duo was gone, and the galley was empty.

There was nothing to do after that but turn the cooker on again and finish breakfast.

He took a plate of cheese omelette to Duo’s cabin when it was ready, hoping it would serve as a peace pipe. He even knocked again before entering. But the cabin was empty. Zechs put the plate on Duo’s desk, wondering where he could possibly have gone—the cockpit? It was in a different section of the ship and would be as private as any space they had, but it was also depressurised, and he couldn’t imagine he’d missed the noise of Duo suiting up.

He had missed some noise, though. He heard it when he stood in the corridor.

The accommodation’s flimsy plastic door was closed. It opened at his touch. Zechs flipped on the sink and wet his hand, and knelt next to Duo to press his cooled hand to a warm forehead.

Duo winced. He was crouched over the commode, and the smell of his sick lingered even though the toilet was flushed clean. Zechs wrapped an arm around him for support while Duo gagged, but he brought nothing up. He spat clear into the bowl.

“You’re ill,” Zechs said uselessly.

“I’m fine,” Duo answered hoarsely. “I’m finished.” As if to prove his statement, he spat once more, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve and flushed the commode. He struggled to his feet, and Zechs hurried to help him. Duo felt cool and fragile, sweat standing out on his forehead and neck. Zechs made up his mind and simply swept Duo into his arms and off his feet, ignoring Duo’s protests. It was a short enough walk, as it was, and within a minute he was laying Duo onto his bed and reaching for the light.

“Does that happen often?” he asked, hovering awkwardly beside the bed.

Duo sat up and took off his headband. He used it to wipe his face. “Must have been all that talk about nudity,” he joked weakly. “Caught a chill after all.”

“Maybe you’re getting space sickness,” Zechs offered. Neither of them laughed, but he saw Duo smile, in the wan light from the portal.

“Yeah,” Duo agreed. “Hope it’s not contagious.”

“Me, too.”

A brief silence fell. Reaction was setting in. On the one hand, he was relieved to have evidence that he truly might not be responsible for Duo’s reaction during the act. On the other, this was no less disturbing. Space sickness was an old joke, but suddenly it seemed a frighteningly real possibility, the sudden onset, and the severity of it. His mind went flying toward symptoms and landed on Duo’s moodiness, his lack of appetite--

Which reminded him of the omelette, and he said, “I don’t suppose you want your breakfast now. I’ll take it away.”

“Don’t throw it out,” Duo said. “I’ll eat it later.”

“Yes,” Zechs said. He picked up the plate, and wondered if he ought to say anything more. Nothing adequate occurred to him. He left without a further word.

He ate his own food, rather than waste the supplies, and was down to washing dishes when Duo finally returned to the galley. He dried his hands, and faced his colleague.

“I have a tetchy stomach,” Duo said. “It really wasn’t your fault.”

“I figured,” Zechs excused him, though truthfully he’d never heard of such a reaction to sexual activity. “Ah… perhaps some hot tea.”

Duo nodded. “Thanks. That would be great.” He pushed one of the chairs closer to the table and sat. Zechs busied himself filling the kettle with their filtered water and turning it on, in finding the tea bags in the cabinet. They had a good variety still, and amongst the choices were mint and chamomile. He chose the mint and readied a cup.

At his back, Duo said dryly, “Nothing like disastrous sex to make you wish you weren’t living in a sardine tin for the next eight months.”

Zechs smiled despite himself. He turned to look at Duo, and agreed. “I don’t know whether to laugh, or—open a vein.”

“Let’s agree to laugh,” Duo said. “A lot less clean-up.”

“All right.” The water was ready and steaming. He held up a jar of honey. “Sweetened, yes?”

“Yeah. Thanks. A spoonful.” Duo had pulled his sleeves low over his fingers and sat chewing on his thumbnail. “Book’s still here,” he said tentatively. “If you still wanted to work on it, maybe.”

An offering of peace. An offering to revert to the only pursuit that they could honestly say they mutually enjoyed. An offering to forget, Zechs understood that much, to pretend the past hour had never happened. He took it gratefully.

“Show me where you left off,” he said.

Duo readily arranged his notes across the table. He opened the book to the second chapter and turned it toward Zechs, then showed him a hand-written sheaf of pages. “I’m working on a translation,” he said. “Not a good one, but…”

Zechs accepted the papers and skimmed them. Duo’s handwriting was small, almost cramped, clinging to the margins, and there were no misplaced words, no cross-outs or eraser marks. Given the scarcity of paper they’d brought with them, Zechs dismissed the idea of a clean copy. With Duo’s memory, he must have had the ability to plot his notes in advance of actually marking them down.

“Your translation is too literal,” he explained. “There’s no way to avoid making mistakes like this. The dictionaries don’t account for idiomatic expression. You can translate the words, but not the language, if that makes sense.”

Duo pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. He was still pale, Zechs noticed, and then tried not to.

“It makes sense,” Duo said. “It blows.”

Zechs turned the Arkhipelag and pressed down the page to read it. “When people decry the abuses of the cult,” he read, “they keep getting hung up on those years which are stuck in our throats, ’37 and ’38. And memory begins to make it seem as though arrests were never made before or after, but only in those two years.”

Duo listened closely. His eyes fell to his translation, and then he picked up the book for himself. Zechs watched his lips move. Duo might have been frustrated with his progress, but Zechs knew it for the brilliant leap it was. Soon he’d have Duo read the chapters to him, he thought.

Assuming Duo didn’t have space sickness and wasn’t in immanent danger.

“It’s still a mystery, isn’t it,” Duo said. “This isn’t our history, it’s not our years. It’s like reading a cipher.”

“I used to think there were parallels.” Zechs set Duo’s notes down and shuffled the pages to make them align. “Maybe I was just looking for them. I wanted to find validation in the march of history. Maybe…” He picked up the tea, and set it in front of Duo. “Maybe we’re making a mistake.”

“I don’t want to stop, just because I don’t get it yet.”

“It wouldn’t mean you quit. It would only mean you found something better to study. More meaningful.”

“I like this,” Duo protested. He seemed almost wounded by Zechs’ suggestion. He dropped his eyes to his tea, one hand clutching it close, and the other hovering protectively over the book. “There’s time now, and I—“

“You’re holding something back,” Zechs guessed.

But Duo only sighed. “The sheer weight of what we don’t know about each other should have kept us stuck in the gravity well.”

“Confess something,” Zechs said suddenly. “Anything. Something boring or shocking or vulgar.”

“Confess something?” Duo repeated. He looked up. He was puzzled, but, Zechs thought, intrigued, also.

Zechs held his breath, until he realised he was doing it. Truth or dare was a silly game, a hateful game in some ways, but he rather thought Duo would be up for it. “I can keep a secret,” he added, with no small irony for the tiny, lonely ship around them. “So you’re safe.”

Duo’s long eyelashes swept down for a moment. “Something boring, or shocking, or vulgar…” he said. “Okay.” He finished his tea and set it aside. “When I was, like, fourteen, maybe, I was living on a ship with some Sweepers. Well, hiding out, I guess, might be the right way to say it. There was this guy, we used to call him Hopper, because he ran the jumpers we used in the asteroids. So we’re docked for a refuel, and he says to me out of no-where, Come on, it’s time for your first drunk.

“So he takes me to this bar at the fuel dump—these places always had bars, back then, real ratty places, some bum with warm beer and liquor he made in his bathtub. And Hopper puts money on the table and tells the guy to keep bringing the booze until I pass out.” He laughed a little. “This stuff tasted—I mean, I’ve never had anything so bad before or after, and I’ve gone looking, I don’t think that bar’s even there any more, or the guy died in his own kegs, maybe… Hopper had me doing shots, and I know I went and puked at least twice, but he’d just pour more in me. When I finally did pass out, we’d been there for hours, hours. It was awful. I don’t even know what I was dreaming or what was real.”

It occurred to Zechs to wonder why Duo had chosen this story to tell him. “Why did he do it?” he asked. “Hopper, I mean.”

“He wanted me to fuck him,” Duo answered casually. He stroked the cover of the book, a gesture so small he didn’t seem aware of it. “He thought it would help his case if I owed him something.”

“Was he right?”

“Sure he was.”

He realised he was perilously close to crossing a line with Duo, but he pressed on anyway. “Do you regret it?”

“Why would I?”

“He used you.” The naïveté of Duo’s response bothered him. It wasn’t—consistent, not with the Duo he knew now, the Duo who attacked fast and protected himself. Or maybe that was his mistake. Maybe that was something he had to think about, deeply, before he let Duo tempt him into bed again.

And Duo’s eyes seemed to agree. They’d gone still and soft, and serious.

“So?” Duo asked, a moment later.

Zechs cleared his throat, and glanced away. “You deserve better.”

He would have known Duo was smiling even if Duo hadn’t reached out to touch his hand. “Thanks,” Duo said. “Darcy.”

“I’m not that noble,” Zechs informed him. “Drink your tea.”

Duo obeyed. “I’m not making fun of you, really. It’s just kind of funny. For me, anyway.”

“You expected me to be different?”

“I don’t know what I expected.”

“You’re exactly as I imagined.” He wished suddenly for tea, himself. There was enough water for half a cup. He made chamomile for himself, and set it to steep on the table. “More cerebral, perhaps. I knew you were intelligent, but I didn’t realise you were so-- driven. To learn.”

“Yeah, it’s not exactly pure scholarship,” Duo admitted. “I think… it’s like… sometimes I feel aware that there’s so much I don’t know. And it’s when there’s a mountain in front of you, and the thing you want is on the other side. All you can do is give up or climb.” His mouth twitched into a smile. “And you got to be just a little impressed that I went for an Earther metaphor, there.”

“A little, yes.” He tried his tea. It wasn’t strong, but it was drinkable.

“So I told you my first drinking story. What’s yours?”

He’d been thinking what to say, if Duo returned the dare. But now with the chance in front of him, he wasn’t sure.

“I was a cadet,” he started. “Fourteen, fifteen. They’d send us out on operations sometimes, to evaluate us.” And there he hesitated. Would the honesty be worth the risk? Looking at Duo, at the easy smile Duo wore, waiting to laugh at whatever tale he told despite the manifestly bad start they’d had together, he didn’t think he had to guts to go ahead with it. If he told the story he wanted to, this tentative, emerging friendship they almost had—it would be crushed, and there would be no second chance. “I—“

Duo sipped his tea, and waited.

“Heard we were going to be sent to the L2 Cluster,” he said instead, guilty and relieved all in one confusing bundle. He licked his lips, and bulled forward with whatever came easily to mind. “I wanted to see it without the taint of OZ first. So a month before the op, I took a shuttle and went. Alone. Treize was frantic. I spent two weeks there.”

“You ran away from home, huh?” Duo rephrased.

“OZ was never my home.”

Duo accepted that. “Metaphorically speaking.”

“I needed it. I thought. It was one of the most foolish things I’ve ever thought.”

“You got in a lot of trouble?” Duo asked.

“Yes. But not for why you think.”

“Why, then?”

“Having been there, seeing it, living amongst those people, everything I was called on to do afterward—made me sick. Until it unravelled completely, and I ran. Before that day, they were just the opposition.”

Duo nodded slowly. “It’s hard when your enemies become faces.”

“Very hard, yes.”

He must have pulled it off. Duo didn’t seem to suspect that he’d switched gears. His hands were fists. He didn’t know when he’d done that. His knuckles were white.

“You really did hate it, didn’t you?” Duo asked softly.

“You have no idea.” He forced his hands flat on top of Duo’s notes. “The instant I saw an out, I took it. The second largest mistake in my life.”

“You’ve got to let go of at least some of those regrets.”

“I prefer not. They keep me careful.”

“They keep you something. Company, I suppose, since no-one was beating down the doors to take this mission with you.”

“I’m told I’m difficult.”

Duo laughed suddenly and brightly at that. The sound of it eased the tightness in Zechs’ chest, and Duo touched his hand again, and he found he could smile, too.

“Hey,” Duo said then. “I think I could eat something now.”

“Good.” Zechs stood quickly and fetched the plate from the refrigerator. “It will only take a moment.”

“Thank you,” Duo said.


	3. Three

“’Is it not still more dreadful that we are now being told, thirty years later, ‘Don’t talk about it!’ If we start to recall the sufferings of millions, we are told it will distort the historical perspective! If we—‘”

Zechs stirred on his bed. Duo hushed immediately, unconsciously holding his breath until the other man turned over, facing away from the small desk light.

Duo touched the screen set into Zechs’ wall. It came to life, displaying the United Earth Sphere seal in muted ozone blue. “Computer,’ he murmured, ‘search мораль.”

A moment later, it beeped softly, and the screen cleared. “мораль,” it repeated back, in that monotone, unaccented male voice that had become the industry standard after Hemmersley had won the hotly contested contract. They’d beat Winner by dropping their bid to millions cheaper and the promise of faster results. Everyone had been suffering through quality flaws for six years. They had Quatre’s new design in the equipment packed in the storage bay. He’d got the new Mars Colony contract through a direct government order, the smartest thing to come out of elected office in a decade, in Duo’s opinion. “мораль. Noun. Morality. Defined as conformity to the rules of right conduct—“

“I know what it means. Thanks.” He doused the screen with another touch, as Zechs shifted again. It was almost morning by Zechs’ schedule, but Duo was reluctant to give up his last quarter-hour of privacy—as private as you could get, anyway, sitting in another man’s chair and wearing another man’s underwear. He watched Zechs until he was sure he was really still sleeping, and pulled the book to the edge of the desk. The pages warmed under his fingers. He flipped forward and carefully pressed them flat.

Once it was established that charges had to be brought at any cost and despite everything, threats, violence, tortures became inevitable. And the more fantastic the charges were, the more ferocious the interrogation had to be in order to force the required confession. Given the fact that the cases were always fabricated, violence and torture had to accompany them. This was not peculiar to 1937 alone. It was a chronic, general practice. And that is why it seems strange today to read in the recollections of former zeks that ‘torture was permitted from the spring of 1938 on.’ There were never any spiritual or moral barriers which could have held the Organs back from torture. In the early postwar years, in the Cheka Weekly, The Red Sword, and Red Terror, the admissibility of torture from a Marxist point of view was openly debated. Judging by the subsequent course of events, the answer deduced was positive.

It is more accurate to say that if before 1938 some kind of formal documentation was required as a preliminary to torture, as well as specific permission for each case under investigation—even though such permission was easy to obtain—then in the years 1937 – 1938, in view of the extraordinary situation prevailing and the specified, limited periods granted for individual interrogation, interrogators were allowed to use violence and torture on an unlimited basis, at their own discretion, and in accordance with the demands of their work quotas and the amount of time they were given. The types of torture used were not regulated and every kind of ingenuity was permitted, no matter what.

It was easy to read objectively. Maintaining the level of concentration to translate and comprehend kept him from really feeling anything he read. But he thought about it, later, in these quiet times. Zechs had been right when he called it horrible and appropriate; and Duo had been wrong when he’d said it was still a cipher, lost in the past and incomprehensible without—without having been there, maybe. He had been there. It had been the machinery of his entire life.

There’d always been whispers on L2 about the secret prisons. Solo had always taken care to point out the homeless men and women to avoid—the ones who claimed they’d been there, the ones who had numbers inked on their hands in faded blue. They’d been crazy, most of them, some of them talking to anyone who would listen and others refusing to talk at all. They’d called them the untouchables. The soldiers would come and pick them up, sometimes, and some of them came back and some of them didn’t, but it was always best to give them a wide berth and pretend you didn’t know who they were if anyone asked. And then later there’d been the rumours that the Plague had been no accident, or, if it had, that there’d been no rush to pass out the vaccine, especially not to colonists. The Alliance had got it, that was a sure thing, the officers and their wives and children who lived on the bases, but not the colonists, not Duo’s friends. And say it wasn’t something Duo—thought about, a lot, ever; say it wasn’t something he—knew how he was to deal with. Horrible and appropriate. Material proof that some things didn’t change, and the only material difference between Duo and millions of others was that he’d lasted a little longer.

He felt a jolt then, with a hand landing on his shoulder. His heart pounded.

Zechs bent over him, a strand of long pale hair falling to Duo’s arm as he bent over to look at the book.

“The Interrogation,” Zechs said. His voice was gravelly from sleep. His thumb travelled lightly down Duo’s arm and stopped on the knob of his wrist. “You shouldn’t read it alone.”

“I didn’t hear you wake.” Zechs’ other hand worked under his braid to the back of his neck, warm and familiar. Duo closed the book quickly. “Fencing or shower first?”

“I can be flexible.”

“Ample evidence of that. From what I remember, anyway.” It had been a dry three weeks. Then, with no reason Duo could discern, last night over dinner Zechs had made an overture Duo could only describe as flirtatious—and cut things off the second Duo went for third base.

The hand on his neck disappeared, and Zechs perched on the edge of the desk, his bare arms crossing over his chest. Duo took in an eyeful of pink nipple and deliberately imagined doing naughty things to them; then he sighed and slumped back in the chair. "You don't think that's kind of self-defeating?" he asked.

Zechs seemed to know what he meant. He didn’t smile—he never did—but his arms tightened over his chest. "It keeps me out of trouble."

"Keeps you in strong wrists, too."

"That's not your concern."

“Cause we’re not sleeping together or anything,” Duo said sarcastically. His suit was in the laundry; he’d been neglecting his wash out of the sheer luxury of being able to be lazy. With no-one to see him but Zechs, it hadn’t seemed important. Except that Zechs’ undershorts didn’t exactly fit, and with Zechs standing there over him so determined to be all tall and muscled and everything, he sort of wished he was dressed. "Masturbation is that much better?"

“You only had to ask."

Duo rolled his eyes. "Oh yeah, it's been all about my wants."

"Hasn't it?"

"I didn't proposition you, Slick."

"We needn't continue if you dislike it."

"You are so god-damn prickly." Duo knocked his knee against Zechs’ leg. “I didn't say I don't enjoy it now. I just don't get why it's on a fucking holiday suddenly."

"It's not."

"Three weeks," he reminded him.

"You could have approached me sooner."

Duo grabbed his crotch as vulgarly as possible. Zechs averted his eyes on cue. "I’ve practically got a dislocated jaw from making out last night. I'm offering. We can fuck more. We can fuck every night if you like."

Zechs looped his hair behind his ears, and sat on the bed instead, forcing Duo to turn the chair. “You as much as admitted to me that you saw this as a favour. An exchange for the language lessons. I’m not… comfortable with that, Duo. I can’t be.”

That left him speechless.

“I like you,” Zechs said. “I’m attracted to you. Physically. I greatly enjoyed sleeping with you. I very much wish I could be assured that you chose to sleep with me for the same reasons. I’m not.”

Duo chewed the inside of his lip and stared at the book. “I appreciate your candour,” he said. “Especially since I’ve tried to be clear I don’t feel the same way.”

“And I’m explaining that I understand. There’s no blame.” Zechs opened the bureau drawer beside his bed and tossed a cotton shirt at Duo. “Fencing, I think. Perhaps you’d like to learn that as well.”

“I don’t think it’s really for me.” He dressed reluctantly. Zechs’ shirt hung large on him, like the underwear.

“What do you do for exercise? Normally.”

“You’ve seen me exercise.”

“I’ve seen what you do in low gravity,” Zechs corrected. He removed his fencing gear from under his bed and began to dress. Duo leaned over to snag the foil, letting the blunted tip wave through the air as he examined the handle. “You must have some other routine.”

“Sure.”

Zechs fastened his white jacket across his chest and held out his hand for the sword. “Well?”

Duo handed it over. “Dancing.”

“Ballet?”

Duo laughed, and tried to stop himself. “No. Not ballet.”

“Ah.” Zechs rubbed the polishing cloth over the blade, suddenly preoccupied. “Clubs, then.”

“No.” Duo stood and stacked the book with his notes. “There’s studios in town. I take classes. Contemporary dance, and Latin dancing. I even tried ballroom last year. It keeps me pretty fit.” He made it to the door, and turned back. “Why would you assume I go to clubs? I mean, it’s kind of an assumption.”

“I apologise. I couldn’t think of anywhere else one could dance, off the top of my head. Studios make sense.” Zechs met his eyes squarely, the way he did, Duo had come to think, during any kind of confrontation.

“Well I don’t,” Duo said. “Go to clubs. And I don’t go to bars, and I don’t hang around the gyms. I don’t pick up guys in public bathrooms, either. Not since my last boyfriend, anyway. Big mistake.” He waggled his eyebrows.

“Ah,” Zechs said again.

“That was a joke,” Duo explained.

“I laughed on the inside.”

Duo hugged the book to his chest. “The thing about—you called it a trade,” he said. “I guess I don’t get why that’s a problem. Why it’s a thing. You turned out to be nicer than I thought you would be, so maybe I don’t not like you as much as previously indicated. I think that’s plenty for fooling around.”

“Maybe you’re right.” Zechs closed the few steps in the little cabin, stopping in front of Duo. His hand rose, then touched Duo’s cheek. “You’re bleeding.”

“Shit.” He hadn’t even felt it. He rubbed his nose, and his fingers came away bloody. His mind blanked. “Shit.”

“Head back.” Zechs grabbed his flannel from the hamper and pressed it to Duo’s nose, putting his hand on Duo’s forehead to tilt his head back farther. “Maybe you’re anaemic? Those nutrition drinks can’t be enough.”

“They’ve always been fine before.” It made him uncomfortable, Zechs hovering so tall over him. He took the rag for himself and stepped back into the hall. The bleed wasn’t stopping. He put the book on the floor and went to their bath. His blood spattered in little drips into the metal sink when he bent over it. He pinched his nostrils shut and held them.

Zechs came in behind him. With the both of them in there, Zechs was pretty much standing in the shower stall. He pressed up behind Duo, and put both hands on his hips. He rubbed gently, his thumbs stroking half-moons.

“This is fucking embarrassing,” Duo said, after several minutes like that. He ran water over the stain in the flannel. It didn’t come out entirely. He wiped his face with a wet palm. “I think it’s done. Probably it’s just the humidity.”

“We can have the computer raise it.”

Zechs’ hand curved around his belly. It was so warm. All over he was warm like that. And after a little longer, his arm went wrapping around Duo, and then the other arm too.

 

**

 

“’The loneliness of the accused!’” Duo read. “’That was one more factor in the success of the unjust interrogation! The entire apparatus threw its full weight on one lonely and inhibited will. From the moment of his arrest and throughout the entire shock period of the interrogation the prisoner was, ideally, to be kept entirely alone. In his cell, in the corridor, on the stairs, in the offices, he was not supposed to encounter others like himself, in order to avoid the risk of his gleaning a bit of sympathy, advice, support from someone’s smile or glance. The Organs did everything to blot out for him his future and… and…’” He turned the book to face Zechs, his finger pointing out the word in question.

“’Distort’,” Zechs supplied, and rubbed his thumb up the arch of Duo’s foot over the wool stocking.

“’And distort his present: to lead him to believe that his friends and family had all been arrested and that material proof of his guilt had been found. It was their habit to exaggerate their power to destroy him and those he loved as well as their authority to pardon, which the Organs didn’t even have. They pretended that there was some connection between the sincerity of a prisoner’s ‘repentance’ and a reduction in his sentence or an easing of the camp regimen, when no such connection ever existed.’” He paused. “Police do that,” he said. “Preventers do.”

“A fine line,” Zechs agreed. “Intent may be the only thing that separates the evil from the good.”

“That’s not the point, though, is it?” Duo replied. “The point is that anyone who would do this to another human being is evil. Categorically evil. There’s the interrogators and the interrogated. Baddies and goodies.”

“What do you think?” Zechs asked.

Duo dropped his eyes back to the pages. He couldn’t answer that right away, and Zechs didn’t press him to. After nearly a month and a half he was fluent enough to read entire pages at a time, but they had never precisely discussed any of the reading. The most personal they’d managed to be was when Duo occasionally risked propping his feet in Zechs’ lap. It probably wasn’t as unconscious as he wished it would look, but he liked Zechs rubbing his feet.

“’We said that ‘ideally he was to be kept alone,’” he continued. He sipped from his mug of tea, steam curling over his cheek, and set the cup aside. “’However, in the overcrowded prisons of 1937, and, for that matter, of 1945 as well, this ideal of solitary confinement for a newly arrested defendant could not be attained. Almost from his first hours, the prisoner was in fact in a terribly overcrowded common cell. But there were virtues to this arrangement, too, which more than made up for its flaws. The overcrowding of the cells not only took the place of the tightly confined solitary ‘box’ but also assumed the character of a first-class torture in itself… one that was particularly useful because it continued for whole days and weeks—with no effort on the part of the interrogators. The prisoners tortured the prisoners! If the latrine bucket replaced all other types of toilet or if, on the other hand, there was no latrine bucket for use between trips to an outside toilet, as was the case in several Siberian prisons; and if four people ate from one bowl, sitting on each other’s knees; and if someone was hauled out for interrogation, and then someone else was pushed in beaten, sleepless, and broken; and if the appearance of such broken men was more persuasive than any threats on the part of the interrogators; and if, by then, death and any camp whatever seemed easier to a prisoner who had been left unsummoned for months than his tormented current situation—perhaps this really did replace the theoretically ideal isolation in solitary.’”

He scratched his head through his headband—the neon pink one Heero had given him as a going-away—then slipped it off to run his fingers through his hair. Zechs rubbed the ball of his left foot, warming it with his hands. The ship was always too cold.

“OZ always kept us together,” he said. “On the Moon Base. Wufei and Heero were already there, when I went there. I think maybe you were out of OZ by then. I don’t know.”

“I was.” Zechs kept his eyes on Duo’s foot as he stretched Duo’s arch with his thumbs. “Howard and the Sweepers told me about the three Gundam Pilots being held on the Lunar Base. They even contemplated a rescue, but we hadn’t the manpower to attempt something so risky on a place so well defended.”

“A fancy way of saying of the Treize faction arrived before you did.” Duo offered a little grin. “I’ve known Howard since I was a kid. No way you kept that man out of Space when one of his boys was there. Three—no way in hell.”

Zechs smiled. “Howard has a stubborn streak.”

“Had,” Duo said, and hesitated. “Sorry. I guess you didn’t know. He passed, four months ago.”

He didn’t expect the way Zechs went frozen between breaths. "When?" he said hoarsely, like he hadn’t heard right.

“Yeah. Well, he was a drunk, you know? Liver went.” Duo dropped his eyes to the book. “Threw himself a party. Never woke up.”

“Shit.” Zechs’ fingers curled around his foot. “No-one told me.”

Like that explained something. Duo said, “Sorry. I didn’t know you knew him much.” He’d handled the arrangements; if Howard had had anyone, Duo had never known about it, and he hadn’t known about Zechs either, being friends with the old man.

“He was a good friend,” Zechs said softly, regretfully. His fingers slowly started massaging again.

“Best.” He licked his lips. It still felt hollow, sometimes, moments thinking about Howard. Duo had never had a father and he’d never particularly felt the lack, but he knew he’d been lucky in the men who had been in his life. He glanced up, and said, “Ever feel like everyone you know is an orphan?” Heero, and Trowa too, and Quatre, he’d lost his father, and Relena Peacecraft for that matter, and Zechs himself--

“Maybe, yes.”

Zechs was unsettled. Trying to hide it, but Duo saw. He would have sat up, but he didn’t want to make it worse, and he had enough sense not to move when there was a wild animal on the couch with him, as it were.

“He never said he was sick,” Zechs said finally.

"He was old. He'd lived the life he wanted to live. When he heard cancer, he just..." Duo shrugged slightly. "He said he was ready, and it was okay."

"Cancer." Zechs was hitting the moment of betrayal. Duo remembered that moment intimately. "I wish I'd known. I'd have made more time to see him.” He let go so suddenly Duo was left blinking. “Excuse me,” he said, and pushed down on the cushions to stand.

“Hey,” Duo said, startled.

Zechs stopped. “Yes?” he asked, his eyes on the opposite wall.

“Don’t go running off,” he said, aiming his tone a little gentler. “Don’t go running off.”

“I—need a moment.”

“Take it here.” Duo spotted his bandana, and grabbed it up. He held it over his eyes. “I won’t even look. Promise.”

He felt him not moving. He waited for it.

Zechs said, “That’s not necessary,” somewhere over his head.

Duo lowered the headband. Zechs was standing over him, looking down. Duo reached out and brushed his knuckles over the back of Zechs’ hand.

Zechs laced their fingers together. “Thank you,” he said simply.

And—shit. That was actually—rather intimate. Duo felt his face heating, and pulled until Zechs let him go. Zechs put his hand in his pocket.

“Right,” Duo said.

“I’ve got paperwork,” Zechs answered.

“I’ve got a dick. You don’t see me doing it all the time.”

“Do you need me to bleed publicly, Duo?”

“Am I public?” Duo retorted. He slumped as low as he could into the sofa and buried his nose in the book. “What-ev.”

“Thanks for your sensitivity,” Zechs said, somewhat sarcastically.

Jerk. Duo tried very hard to read, but he couldn’t focus on the words. “He was my friend too. First, actually.”

“You’ve had four months to process his death,” Zechs said coolly. “I’ve had four minutes. But I’m sorry for your loss.” This time, he did leave.

“Damn it,” Duo muttered.

He had nearly an hour to himself after that, with Zechs hiding in his room with some kind of classical music playing loud enough to blot out any attempt he might have made at apologising-- assuming he wanted to-- not that he did. He puttered around the ship for a bit feeling useless and irritable, but there was simply nothing to do but stare. He ventured as far as the airlock to the cockpit, but even for the sake of privacy he didn’t want to suit up and transfer through. It would be freezing in there, for one, and Duo had never liked a quick transition from a ship’s artificial gravity into weightlessness. With a sigh, he abandoned the idea, and went back to the mess. He squirmed on the couch until he found a comfortable angle on his stomach, chin propped on one of the thin cushions, with the book open in front of him. The fun had rather gone out of it, but Duo didn’t much like silence, either.

When Zechs finally did emerge from his protective cocoon, his fringe was damp and he smelled like soap. Duo checked curiously for red eyes, but immediately felt rude—prurient-- for doing so.

"I apologise." Zechs had his mask—his figurative mask, anyway—cemented back in place. Cool, and controlled, and Duo was obscurely relieved to see it. "He was your friend long before I knew him,” he went on. “And you couldn't have been expected to know I'd care."

“Thanks," Duo answered after a moment. "That's maybe more generous than I could be about it. I'd be pissed, if I were in your shoes."

"What would be the point? I hardly think Howard would be honoured by that."

Duo bit his lips together against a retort. He hated how Zechs always turned things back to personal honour and personal shame. That wasn’t Duo’s code, and it hadn’t been Howard’s either. What people like them understood was debt and loyalty, and which one you owed to which person was what defined you, not some mediaeval idea of how noble it made you.

If Zechs noticed the need for his restraint, he didn’t say anything about it. Instead he put the kettle under the sink faucet and began to fill it. "Would you like another cup?" he asked.

"Sure."

"Caffeinated?"

“Thanks.” Duo closed the book decisively and sat up. "So, I have a question. I've been keeping it stored for an awkward moment." He offered a little smile.

And Zechs, miracle of miracles, returned it, if faintly. He placed a canister of tea before Duo, one of the loose leaves. Duo lifted it to his nose to smell; it was the ginger peach blend. "Should I be afraid?" Zechs murmured.

That was one side of coy. Duo didn’t know if Howard would be honoured by a little roll and romp, but he figured Howard would understand, at least.

He occupied his eyes and hands with filling the infuser with the leaves, searching the canister for extra bits of candied peach peel. "That first time, with the alphabet,” he said. “You wrote me some phrases, remember?"

"I remember."

“Ti takAya valnUyashaya. Ti takAya Iskrennaya. Ti takAya ocharovAtel’naya.” Duo watched Zechs’ expression go from caution to confusion. He poured steaming water into two mugs and took the infuser from Duo so delicately their hands didn’t touch. Zechs didn’t let it steep quite as long as Duo preferred, but he added just the right amount of honey, dipping a spoon in with the bowl-side down and letting it drip for ten seconds. Duo pressed his lips together to hide a smile when Zechs faced him with the cup.

"I know we've both got long hair and all,” he said, “but I think we've seen enough of each other by now for you to realise. I don't have girl parts."

Zechs didn’t meet his eyes as he fixed the second mug of plain black tea. "No, you don't.” He sat at the table, opposite side from Duo, in the chair. “It took you half the time it took me to realise...” He sipped carefully. “Or maybe you're just more brave. I never confronted Treize about it when he tested me like this."

"Kind of a low trick, with a non-speaker." Duo took his own sip. The tea was sweet and just slightly peppery. "I thought it was just Russian for 'hand over your pussy.'"

That tiny tinge of pink appeared in streaks down Zechs’ neck. “After a fashion. I did have that—relationship—with Treize, but there’s a history to it as well. His mother was Russian. Those were the first words his father ever spoke to her."

“Love at first sight?” Duo guessed.

“The match was made by their parents. The Khushrenadas were wealthy, but they were bourgeoisie. Yulya Palivoda was a duke’s daughter.”

Duo shook his head. “Haven’t you people ever heard of democracy?” he said.

“Never a popular idea in some circles,” Zechs answered, deadpan.

“Obviously.” Duo blew on his tea to cool it, and put it down. "So did you want me to hand over my pussy?"

"Yes." Zechs met his eyes for that one as he sipped his tea. “I wanted you."

“Past tense," Duo pointed out.

"I want you still."

"I kind of think you're the one who's not making the moves." He wished he’d stopped his own mouth for that, because there was no point. They’d already hashed this out and got no-where with it.

"I needed to care less about your motives."

Past tense again. Duo noticed. He burned his fingers on the mug holding it too tight, but it gave him something else to concentrate on. "I never intend for things to get important."

"It's not always avoidable." Zechs reached across the table. He slid his thumb across the back of Duo's hand. "They don't have to be if you prefer."

How was that for coming to terms? With a vengeance. Duo made an effort to look at the man straight-on. "You're the unknown in that equation,” he said.

"I can be any way you prefer. I've spent my life performing to expectations."

"Kind of sad." The thumb went back and forth over his knuckles. "You and Heero really are twins. Fraternal twins, obviously."

"I'd like to think that's a compliment."

Duo rolled his eyes. "Sure. Anal retention is always flattering."

Zechs shrugged. He moved his hand away, then stood and leant over the table. He kissed Duo, simple as that, and said, "I want us to have sex."

"You're so weird." That leap of logic surprised the hell out of him. “Dry spell got you down, huh?"

"I'm… tired of fighting it." Zechs quirked his lips. "And my wrists are tired."

He had to laugh. He stood, too. Zechs met him halfway, and he pressed their lips together, slightly open. He flicked the tip of his tongue over Zechs’ teeth in a tease. He got his answer when Zechs curled his hand around the back of Duo's neck and held him there. He opened his mouth and his tongue came dancing back, chasing Duo’s.

"Take down your hair," Zechs murmured, nuzzling his nose to Duo’s temple.

"No." Duo held the knot of his bandana when Zechs tried to slip it away.

"Care to explain why not?"

"Not particularly."

"Ah. Well." Zechs joined him on the couch and sat. If he was distressed by Duo’s refusal, he didn’t show it. But he took Duo’s plait in hand, pulling it over his shoulder. He stroked it slowly.

"All that hair never got in your way?" Duo asked him curiously.

"Not really."

"You make all your army chicks wear it up."

That got him a sly little smile. "Yes."

Duo plumped the cushion behind him and slumped into it. He propped one foot on the back of the couch. Zechs’ eyes went to his crotch. Duo let it linger there for a minute, then slowly he slid his foot down. His ankle bumped Zechs’ thigh, and then he dropped it into his lap. He curved the arch over Zechs’ package and pressed lightly.

"Not too subtle, Duo." Zechs’ eyelashes fluttered, a flash of white in the light overhead. "Continue."

Duo grinned. He rubbed slowly, digging his sole into Zechs’s balls, a soft bulk under his cotton trousers, then spreading his toes wide over the harder ridge of his prick. Zechs closed his eyes on a sharp indrawn breath. He covered Duo’s foot with his hand. Then he reached for Duo’s arm and pulled. Duo came willingly, straddling Zechs’s lap and setting his back to the edge of the table. He let Zechs pull off his bandana this time. He shook his head until the long pieces grown out from his fringe fell loose. Zechs fingered his skull back from his temples to his neck, and held him still for a deep kiss. Duo did a thorough job trying to lick the inside of his mouth top to bottom.

“I’ve never been so happy for Velcro,” Zechs murmured against his lips, breaking open the fastenings over his chest. Duo climbed off him and lay back on the couch. Zechs followed after him, plucking open his suit inch by inch, trailing his lips after and leaving a slow tingling burn everywhere he touched. When he reached the end of the line, he covered Duo’s groin with his palm and squeezed.

Duo smiled up at the ceiling. “Touch me with it."

Zechs laughed. "Who's vanilla now, Duo?" But he did. He freed himself from his trousers and knelt over Duo. He pressed their cocks together.

God. Hot as a poker. Duo licked his lips. "All over."

"Like this?" Zechs dragged the head up Duo's body, from tummy to chin, walking up the couch on his knees and leaving a line of cooling precome. Duo guided the head into his mouth as it came near. Zechs gripped the armrest with a shaky exhale. “God, Duo.”

He licked the salty taste away and kissed the head, then slid lower on the couch between Zechs’ legs. He licked Zechs’ balls and sucked gently, then pulled them into his mouth, too. Zechs groaned and gripped his head.

"Think you can stay standing over me?" Duo whispered.

Zechs moved to brace himself even while sounding uncertain. "For how long?"

As long as it took, and Duo didn’t intend that it would take all that long. He squirmed until he had the right angle, propped up on an elbow in a way that didn’t strain his neck too much, and pulled Zechs’ bobbing cock down into his mouth again. Zechs supported him with a broad palm, holding his head up, and Duo sucked hard.

Fingers on his scalp, down his cheek. Duo stroked Zechs’ thighs, dragging his fingertips through pale hair on tight gluts. He pulled his buttocks apart and rubbed his pointer finger against Zechs’ asshole. Zechs jerked forward into his face.

“Let me touch you,” Zechs moaned.

He pinched him on the ass for that. Zechs jerked again, and Duo lifted his head the last few inches to swallow. The head hit the back of his throat and Duo opened around it, long practice making it smooth even in this position. The warm ballsac slapped his chin, the legs on either side of him began to tremble.

"If you expect me to be passive, you're just being stupid." The hand on his hair made a fist, then released. "What is it you want me to do? Or not do?”

Duo let his cock spring out of his mouth for a moment. "Stand still,” he suggested, licking his lips to wet them and reaching for Little Darcy again.

"Fuck you,” Zechs cursed hoarsely. “This isn't... right."

Duo dropped his head to the seat. "What do you do when you touch yourself?"

"What?"

"When you wank off. What do you do?"

"You're not expecting me to show you—“

"Why not?" Duo said. He had a blurry impression of the top half of Zechs’ body up there somewhere, but the view he had of the lower half seemed a lot more important. He aimed up for the dark little nub between Zechs’ cheeks again, hidden in golden body hair, but not from the touch of his finger. He made a fist around the base of Zechs’ dick. “Little Darcy,” he said, just to hear it aloud.

"Fuck off." Zechs knocked his hand away. It was the tone that penetrated Duo’s determination to ignore any problems, this time, and with a sigh he admitted they were probably jinxed out of sex forever. "Why does it always have to be a game with you?" Zechs demanded.

He rolled his eyes. "Vanilla."

"Maybe your one-note brand of sex just lost its appeal."

That was moderately nasty, and it sounded a lot more like the Zechs Merquise he remembered than the one who blushed through calling him ‘exciting’ and ‘sincere’.

"Guess I'm not the only camel carrying the baggage," he said. He ducked his head between Zechs’ thighs and sat up on the other side.

Zechs turned to face him. Duo waved his hands. “We’re done,” he clarified. “You might as well sit down.”

He had the grace to look embarrassed. He eased down on the couch, tucking himself discreetly away as he did. “I apologise,” he said stiffly. "I don't…”

“It’s cool,” Duo said. “No explanation necessary.”

“I believe it is.” Zechs sighed then, and looked away. “I don’t have a long history of healthy sexual relationships. I've been trying to change that."

That did not particularly surprise Duo. He said, "Well, I have got. And it's really a lot easier if you tell me beforehand what's off limits."

"I don't like games." Duo raised his eyebrows, and Zechs acknowledged the redundancy of it. "And I don't want to be... the salt you rub in your wounds."

Another leap that left him behind. Duo looked him askance. "What are you on about? What's that mean?"

"Just as it sounds."

"Uh, well, it sounded a little crazy."

"Yes, doesn't it?” The look Zechs gave him told him it was supposed to be significant, anyway. “Maybe you should consider that."

"You know I've got no idea what you're talking about, right?"

"You pick people you think will hurt you.” Zechs wasn’t normally a fidgeter, but he was twitching now, toying with the handle of one of the mugs on the table, hiding behind his hair. “I don't know why. Maybe because you don't think you'll have to risk giving something real."

“Excuse me?” he demanded. He pulled his suit closed and made sure it fastened.

"You asked. Was I supposed to lie?"

"I didn't know you were going to be weird," Duo said gruffly.

"Then you don't know me at all."

He managed to crack a smile for that, but he still felt off his game. “Walked into that one.”

Zechs traced the inside of his own wrist with a finger. "With Treize I grew very comfortable with surrender,” he said. He met Duo’s eyes finally. “He'd insist and I... I'd submit. Eventually, I will with you, too. If neither of us thinks very hard about it, we'll manage."

Duo exhaled. "It's just meant to be a game," he said softly, apologetically.

"It's not your fault."

"Guess he kind of did a number on you."

"I let him."

Duo forced a smile. "That was stupid, then," he said, not really meaning it.

Zechs returned it though. "I'm not a smart man."

"You speak Russian. Can't be all bad."

A laugh, finally. Duo pressed a palm to Zechs’ cheek, and kissed him. Then his jaw. Then his pulse, and then back behind it to his ear. He tongued the edge of the cartilage through stray hairs and whispered, "I don't think you're going to hurt me. I do hope you're going to fuck me, though."

Zechs brought Duo’s head around to look him in the eye again. His pupils were dilated, and there was no mistaking the expression there. "I want you," he said.

“Easy as pie,” Duo promised. He licked Zechs’ lips quickly, then made his own path through the stubble on Zechs’ neck to his collar. “But I’m not doing it on the table again. The table is bad juju.”

Zechs was fast, too, though, and suddenly Duo was off the couch and dangling in the air with no clear idea how he’d got there. "Works for me," Zechs said smugly, and carried him out of the galley into Duo’s room. It was only a few steps, so Duo chose to laugh it off. Zechs kicked his door open and laid him out on the bed like he was draping out something precious that shouldn’t wrinkle.

"I'm not a child,” Duo said, amused. “You can't just haul me around all the time."

"I'm not sure you can stop me," Zechs retorted. He pulled his shirt off over his head and discarded it to the floor.

Good. If they could both make jokes, maybe they’d weathered all the karmic retribution after all. Zechs was wasting no time getting naked again, and Duo followed his lead. He got a foot stuck in the leg of his suit, though, and Zechs, golden tan all over down to the dangling line of his not inconsiderable assets, bent over him to help him out of it, then used the handhold on his calf to spread Duo’s legs wide open. He knelt in front of the bed and pulled Duo across the mattress until his ass was hanging over the edge, and went down on him without so much as a by-your-leave, clearly determined to have his own way this time. Duo didn’t tempt fate by objecting, though. Zechs had a firm, sure touch, and a busy tongue. He closed his eyes and enjoyed it.

It didn’t take long for the world behind his eyelids to narrow focus. Every breath seemed to burn. His legs were restless and everything more than an inch away from Zechs’ mouth felt numb. He fumbled somewhere south of reality for one of Zechs’ hands, not the one rolling his balls, and clutched it, brought it up to his stomach for a lingering caress.

There was a short pause while Zechs wet a finger. “In Space, no-one can hear you scream.”

“Sorry,” Duo said. His hand came away with sweat when he wiped his forehead. “I forget.”

“Me, too,” Zechs forgave him.

“Never had a lot of privacy really.” The finger went in. God.

“Soldiers never do.” Zechs lapped him up again and sucked so hard Duo cried out, private or not, his finger pounding up relentlessly. “Stop,” Duo begged, clutching fistfuls of his duvet, but Zechs wouldn’t. Duo lost his breath and for a moment, everything went a little dark.

He floated down slowly, unwilling to rush himself. He could feel Zechs’ head on his belly, in no hurry either, his finger still inside of Duo’s body but unmoving, just a little comforting presence. Guilt edged in first, reminding him that Zechs was on his knees on titanium and it had to be uncomfortable. He made a lazy effort to crawl backward on his bed, and Zechs followed him up, settling heavily on his side, the only way they both fit. He did his best not to crowd Duo, letting him come down in his own time. He traced Duo’s trail of hairs over his stomach to just above his groin, but only that.

"Not bad," Duo said finally.

Zechs glanced up at him. "Not in your league, I'm afraid," he teased.

Duo grinned. "I’ve had the whole Preventers corps to practice on.”

Zechs lost a little of his smugness. "I'm in no position to judge you for that."

"Why not? You wouldn't be the only one." Duo rolled to face him, and cupped Zechs between the very long legs carefully held to keep pressure away. He was hard and probably tender, and Duo gave absolutely no quarter as he stroked. "But I do not want to talk about other men right now,” he said. “I'd much rather take care of this."

Zechs thrust into his palm as his face flushed. "I won't object to that."

"Excellent notion." He threw a thigh over Zechs as he reached over him to the bedside table. The lotion was still in the drawer from whenever ridiculous amount of time ago they’d first done this, and Duo praised his own optimism as he seized the little bottle.

Zechs snatched it out of his hand as quick as any pickpocket. "Let me?"

“Sure, studly,” Duo allowed. He fell back to his pillow and propped his head on his arms. Zechs spread his legs again, nipping his thighs as he pushed them apart. He fumbled just a little getting the cap off the lotion, and it was cold when his fingers, two of them this time, went curving into him again, but Duo held his tongue and kept his smile firmly in place. It got better quickly. Zechs lay over him for leisurely kisses, biting lightly at his lips and his jaw, and, maddeningly independent, his fingers scissored and twisted, his thumb rubbing Duo’s ballsac, his knee nudging Duo’s legs wider every time he forgot to hold them wide. When a wet hand encircled his cock and spread lotion from base to tip, Duo swallowed dryly and said, “God, I’m so ready I could squeal.”

Zechs kissed him a final time. “Ready,” he agreed.

Duo grabbed his pillow and rolled with it, folding it in half under his stomach to prop himself up. Zechs slid into place behind him, lotion-damp hands massaging lightly down his back and then his buttocks, rubbing circles over his hole. Duo closed his eyes when he felt something larger replace the fingertips and slowly press him open.

Then it was in. There was a little wave of pain, familiar and half-erotic. He pressed his face into his arm as Zechs slid deeper and deeper; it felt like his whole body was no larger than just big enough for what was filling him. And just before it got to be too much it halted. Zechs traced his plait and kissed the tattoo on his shoulder blade.

Slow, at first. Momentum built, then, until the first stinging slap of Zechs’ hips to his ass, and he gasped as it touched off a spark inside him. Duo breathed into his sheets. “Hold my shoulders,” he whispered.

He wasn’t sure Zechs had heard him. Maybe he just hesitated. There was some shifting, silken sounds on the duvet and the thing in him nudging deeper for a moment, and then thick, hard fingers on his shoulders. Without his sight, Zechs felt so much larger than him, a giant leaning over him like that, so close and radiating heat. Duo covered one of the hands with his own.

A hard thrust, using his shoulders as leverage. It forced a grunt out of him, and he saw light behind his eyes. “Yes,” he hissed. Zechs sawed back and forth over that spot, perfect almost every time, and then like a switch had been thrown he started pounding in and out, rocking them across the bed until Duo threw out an arm to brace against the wall. “Yes. God.”

“Duo.” Zechs groaned in his ear. "I can't hold it much longer. Let me... " One of his hands went searching between Duo and the mattress. Duo got a knee under him, and Zechs caught his cock in a rough fist. Every snap of his hips sent him skidding on the duvet, dragging his cockhead over the fabric, and he let himself moan with abandon at that. Teeth in his shoulder, and Zechs came like a freight train, splashing him with wetness inside. Duo felt himself twitch like a puppet on strings and panted through it as he climaxed a second time.

 

**

 

“Record message,” Duo said. “No visual.”

“Message recording,” the computer answered.

“Hi,” Duo said to the thin air, feeling slightly ridiculous, talking almost to himself like this. “Hi, Trowa. It’s Duo. Just checking in, I guess. I hope you’re well and that everything at work is too. Don’t fight with Wufei too much. I’m not there to break it up if it gets too physical.” He chewed on his lower lip. “I’m all right. We’re getting on, me and Zechs, more or less. Not a lot to do but get on, yeah?” He discovered a tiny hole in the arm of his stretch suit and pulled his hand inside his sleeve to stretch it over his thumb. “I’m learning a language,” he remembered to say. “When I get back I bet I won’t even speak English anymore. You won’t be able to understand a word I say. Though I guess you’d tell me that’s already the way of it.” He dropped his head back to the chair rest. “This is a stupid question. I just—never mind. Anyway, I hope—look—did you ever think that I choose who I sleep with because they’re going to hurt me? Someone—someone I know said that. I guess I was just wondering if you thought it too, that I do that to avoid having to give anything ‘real’ to anyone else. I mean, we were real, right? Sure as hell not true love or anything, but we did all right, so I guess you’re as qualified to judge as anyone. I trust you, anyway. I mean, I trust you to tell me the truth. I mean—I mean I know you lie to me a lot, but never about the important things, or the really unimportant things, and this is totally one of the latter, so, you know, don’t even bother with an answer, it’s nothing. Hope you’re well. Probably it’ll be a while before I send another message, so just tell the others that I rang and that everything’s on schedule. Ta.”

His face was hot. He was glad he’d cut visual. The computer took his silence for a command, and softly informed him, “Message sent.”

“So it is,” Duo muttered. He pressed his hands to his cheeks to cool them. “Thanks, Computer.” He fixed his sleeve and stood.

And sat quickly. His head was swimming and a wave of black spots broke over his vision. He sucked in a deep breath and another quickly, gripping the arms of the chair hard.

Slowly the faintness cleared away. He was more cautious, this time, getting up. He felt a little light-headed still, but he could see, at least. He kept a hand on the wall for safety and walked the length of the hall, hoping it wouldn’t recur. He was relieved when it didn’t.

Zechs was asleep. Duo checked on him to be sure, even turned on his light and made a little noise, but the movement of his eyes under his lids said he was deep in REM. Duo carefully closed his door almost to latching, and went back up the hall to the galley. It didn’t have a door, short-sighted construction, but they’d worked out a blanket taped over the portal for when one of them wanted to exercise in a little privacy. Duo hung it now, and kept the light low, too.

There were basic medical facilities in the galley. Duo hauled out the suitcase and opened it on the floor; it was too heavy for him to lift on his own without emptying it first. There was a phlebotomy kit inside. Duo tore open one of the packets and donned the latex gloves. He used his teeth to tie the rubber band around his upper arm. It was a little hard to manage the needle one-handed, but with a few painful tweaks, he filled four vacutainers of blood. He folded a cotton ball into his elbow and worked quickly to connect the centrifuge to the power supply. If Zechs stayed in bed to his unofficial ‘morning’, then Duo had several hours, but only if he was quiet enough to prevent any interruptions.

“Computer,” he said. “Switch to Medical Aid.”

“Medical Aid engaged.”

“Agent Duo Maxwell,” he said. “Reporting symptoms.” He balanced the rotor with his vials and set the controls. The centrifuge began to spin his blood. “Headache. Stomach ache and vomiting. Nosebleed. Newest symptom is dizziness.”

“When did you start experiencing these symptoms?” it asked him.

“Headaches before boarding, so maybe two and a half months,” he said. “Stomach, about the same, two months maybe. I don’t think before I boarded really. Only two nosebleeds at different times, one about two weeks ago, and one last night. Woke up with blood all over my pillow. Dizziness, the last half hour.”

“Please rate severity of symptoms.”

“I don’t know,” he said, frustrated. “Nothing I couldn’t deal with.”

“The preferred scale is—“

“One to ten,” Duo finished. “Fine. I don’t know, a four on the headaches, maybe, and the puking too. Four for all of it.”

“Noted. A case file has been created. Please add any further information now.”

“Right.” The centrifuge slowed to a halt. Duo freed his vials, and set up the lab console according to the picture taped to the inside of the suitcase. He followed the instructions for dividing the blood sample, and sat back on his heels. “Ready.”

“Testing to commence. Results to be analysed and referred to the Zebra Tango Midway Post.”

“No!” Duo glanced to the blanketed portal, embarrassed by his exclamation. “File access restricted on voice command.”

“Medical Aid may be unable to complete the analysis with expected accuracy—“

“I don’t give a damn about the disclaimer. We’ll deal with it when it happens. Access restricted.” Duo checked his cotton ball; the bleeding had stopped. He gathered the remains of the phlebotomy kit for discard. “How long will this take?”

“Estimated two point seven hours.”

Nothing to do but wait, then, and hope Zechs stayed put as long as he was supposed to. He stood carefully, fighting the disorientation. He tried to breathe evenly until the dancing spots faded. If he was lucky, it was a problem with the nutrient shakes, low blood pressure—just an unlucky flight. It happened. Never to him, but he’d known plenty of Sweepers who suddenly developed problems on long flights. They called it Sweepers Sag. And they got over it just fine.

Just fine. He’d be just fine, and Zechs would never have to know he’d even worried about it.


	4. Four

“God!” Duo exclaimed. He shook Zechs off with a violent shrug and turned his face into his pillow. “I said I don’t like that. We’re done. Why don’t you just go back to your own cabin?”

He retracted his hands, stung. He set the hairbrush on Duo’s bedside table, and slipped off the bed. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I suppose I ought to have remembered.”

“You try to touch me again like that and we’re done,” Duo repeated. He threw Zechs’ shirt at him. “You don’t have to fall in love with everyone you sleep with. You’re making a fool of yourself.”

He exhaled heavily. Duo had been running hot and cold by turns, cruel one minute and inviting, even affectionate the next. Not half an hour earlier Duo had teased him until he laughed and dragged him by the hand to his room.

“Go,” Duo said.

 

**

 

Anyone born in Space knew certain unalterable truths.

Number One. Nothing is certain. Not the ground under your feet. Not the air you breathe to live. Not your shelter, not your food, and damn sure not your water.

Number Two. Alliance is always the enemy.

Number Three. It’s colonies for the colonies, because no-one else knows. No-one else will ever know.

Duo had lived twenty-six years longer than a lot of colonials, and in all that time he’d never seen anything that shook him off those beliefs. Even spending time on Earth had only proven them truer, as far as he was concerned.

There were other things colonials knew that Earthers didn’t. Knew how to let go and have a good time, and watch each others’ backs while you did it, and as far as he’d seen there weren’t many Earthers who knew how to do that. People needed that, in a place where everyone had a job sustaining everyone else. Never trust anyone who wants to be a politician, that was another saying, because anyone who wanted to live off the work of everyone else without giving anything back had better have some damn good ideas to share. Everyone you knew in the colonies worked in Recycle or Hydroponics or Sewage or Diagnostics or something that ensured that some daily part of your own life was getting taken care of. Alliance had never understood that—wouldn’t let them congregate, would let them meet for the backyard weekender or the Sunday pub night. Didn’t get that it made people angrier, that it made them harder, shortened the fuse that much more. You needed that to reassure yourselves you’d all made it another month out there on the edge of all human existence. No complacency, not out here, just you and a lot of other people you had to trust to have your back. There’s your brothers and there’s Alliance, Solo had said, there’s death and those who bring it, said Father Maxwell. Twenty-six years and they were still right.

Father Maxwell had been born on Earth, even before Alliance had declared martial law, he’d been that old. Well, not that old, maybe, but Alliance had been in the colonies fifty years at least when Duo was born. But Father Maxwell was an Earther by origin, even if he’d lived on L2 long enough to walk like a native. He’d showed Duo all his old pictures from a place called Berlin that Duo had never heard of, all these places with mountains and fields and all this open sky Duo couldn’t, hadn’t, believed could be real. You’re shitting, he’d said, and Maxwell had rapped his knuckles and hugged him after, because Duo always made him laugh.

For Duo it had always been Space. Space even more than colonies, because the gangs knew how to use the infrastructure, the service passages that were bone-chilling cold but sustainable, if you had the know-how. There’d been real thrill in being that close to no-air and no-heat and no-up-or-down. After the Church he’d gone stealing onto the Sweeper ships, the only Space traffic Alliance let through because everyone needed scrap and fuel, even the Almighty Assholes—Father had always laughed at that one too, even though Sister Helen scowled. On the ships it had been something else. He got caught all the time—not a lot of place to hide on ships, not if you meant to breathe and stay warm. But Space was a tough mistress, that was Howard talking, and Space took as much as it gave, so there was always a berth that went empty on a voyage and work that needed a new pair of hands. By the time he was old enough to tick it off on three hands he’d been talking the language of the Deep Cold like even colonials couldn’t.

He knew the feel of Space with his eyes closed. Knew every fold and dimple, every gravity well by the whisper of it on his skin.

He knew before the alarm went that something was wrong.

Woke up in the dead of his night hours. Zechs was asleep, hogging the lion’s share of the bed and the sheet besides, mumbling inaudibly. Duo didn’t know what had got him spooked, only that, crammed to the wall and with his upper half gone to goose-flesh without covers, there was something outside the walls that wasn’t right.

Seven seconds later, the proximities went off.

It was Zechs’ shift, technically. But Duo was the awake one—well, they were both awake, once the siren started blaring—but Duo was the one who went vaulting over the side of the bed to the floor. “Got it covered,” he said, pausing to pat Zechs on the shoulder and shimmy into his stretchsuit.

Zechs went fumbling in the dark for the lamp and missed. “What is it?”

“I got it, hon,” he repeated. “Stay put.” He gave Zechs a light shove back to the mattress, and went out to the hall. They had the dims on for the night-cycle. Duo keyed them up to brights and opened the security cabinet by the airlock. The alarms were only Level One, approaching ship or wreck or something not empty void. “Computer,” he called out. “What’s out there?”

“Unknown mass,” it answered, unshakably calm.

Cockpit was in zero-g, separate from the rotating cylinder they lived in that had self-generated gravity. Duo hit the control for a fast oxygenation, but took a mask to be on the safe side. Suit, real suit, came next, emergency provision against the cold that was waiting on the other side of the door. With the swiftness of long practice, Duo was dressed and in the airlock only thirty seconds after the alarms had started. He locked it behind him right before Zechs made it into the hallway. He waved, just to be a prick. Airlock transfer took four minutes, and once it started, computer wouldn’t allow an interruption.

“Duo!” Zechs shouted through the glass.

The blast of the sucker started, peeling all the air out of the lock. And cutting off all sound. Duo watched all his loose hairs go shooting up above his head. He didn’t like the transfer, always felt in danger of getting pulled up into the vents with the force of it. He faced the cockpit, pitch dark, completely powered down, except for the blinking light of the proximities. It would be another minute getting all systems online. The alarms gave them two thousand kilometres, enough time to react if it was slower than an MS. If it wasn’t, Duo might get in there with just enough time to watch death catching up.

Wasn’t that a thought. His blood pumped a little quicker.

The airflow cut. A green light blinked over his head, three times, all the warning he got; and the lock opened on the pit.

Two steps put him over the rotational edge, and gravity ended, just like that. There was a moment of disorientation, standing at the cusp, where it seemed like the pit was moving and he was standing still. But he took the final step, and floated free into mid-air, and everything went normal again. He let his momentum sail him forward the few feet to the chairs. He strapped in, and booted the console to power.

“Screen,” he ordered the computer. It fizzed to live, unused for three months. “Show me what’s out there.” It wasn’t beyond possibility that there was some old colony wreckage out here. There was a lot of refuse from the war just floating its way through the Sphere, too, come to that. Sweepers were making a good job of cleaning it up, but stuff drifted, and they were still in A Sector, on the edge.

“Duo.”

It was Zechs, stuck in the lock now, banging on the door to be heard over the transfer.

Duo keyed the airlock screens to life obediently, and sent Zechs the images. "Looks like some of the regular crap,” he reported. "I wouldn't bother coming in. I can handle it."

The mics were on now, picking up some heavy breathing as Zechs struggled to dress under the vents. "I'm not following you, Duo."

"I'm reading… five Leos and a coupla Vayettes." Coming in slow for hostiles. Duo switched over to weapons and guidance. This was what he needed, a nice bit of action, something to shake them loose from all the petty bickering they’d been doing. He was so tired of being down all the time. "IT'S A GUNDAM!" he shrieked, joking, and laughed when the comm crackled.

"Duo.” The lock released. Duo didn’t spare it a look. "There are no Leos out there."

"Relax, man,” he said cheerfully. “Engaging. Might wanna hold on. Evasive manoeuvers first, just like regulation." He carted sharply starboard. The lead Vayette fired first shot, and missed by a mile. This was going to be too easy.

A body hit, though, hit the chair next to him and scrambled slow-motion in zero-g to settle in. "Status report."

Duo glanced, and started. Zechs Merquise? "You?" he said.

"It's all clear. You got them all, Duo." Merquise covered his hand on the left joystick. "Look around you. Everything's dead."

Merquise. Something was wrong. He tried to free his hand, but Merquise held him, twice his size and stronger even without gravity. He looked at the screen. His throat was tight. He tried to swallow. "I'm reading Leos--"

Hand on his wrist went tight, too. Squeezed hard. "They're finished."

Zechs. He was almost clear, and then he—wasn’t. The Vayette was still coming, and he would have to engage now if they were going to have a chance in this tin bucket, it was hardly a real MS with sufficient shielding—

Zechs was staring at him, his eyes pleading in the flashing proximity lights.

"Disengage weapons systems," Zechs said.

Duo slapped the comm. "Heero, come in,” he called. “I'm getting confusing readings."

"Heero's not here, Duo."

No response. He hit the comm again, bashed his ever-loving hand on it so hard he thought for a pained second he’d broken it. "Heero?" he demanded.

Zechs grabbed him by the wrist and swivelled their chairs on the tracks to face. "The war's over, Maxwell."

War. War’s over.

Leos. And then just—space junk. There was nothing out there but metal a decade dead and lifeless. How had—how had he thought—

The pain hit in a stab to the temples. He clapped his hand to his head. “Shit,” he hissed. “Christ, it hurts.”

Zechs got him unstrapped, and he floated out of his chair. The proximity alarms went silent abruptly. They plunged into silence. The pain in his head went rolling on, wave after wave of nausea-inducing agony. His eyes teared and he shut them against even the faint glow of the screen showing black space.

The transfer back to the living area was hell. The noise of the vents was like an avalanche in his ears, and it was cold, except he was hot, he was burning up. And the pain in his head. Stroke, he thought muzzily, aneurism—except he wasn’t numb, weren’t you supposed to be numb? He was on fire. Back in gravity, and he couldn’t even support himself. Zechs was all but carrying him. The lights in the corridor were torture, searing torture even after Zechs turned them off.

“I’m sorry,” Zechs was saying. “It was my fault. It was my watch. Duo? Do you need to vomit?” He was stripping Duo out of the suit, and then right out of his clothes under that, naked in the hall. “Come lie down.”

"I fucked up,” Duo said. Shivers hit, and his teeth chattered. “Didn't I?"

No answer. Just movement, Zechs moving him down the hall. Lie down, he thought, go to sleep, this will all—better—

The next step just wasn’t there. Black hole under his feet. He stumbled. And then the floor came rushing up, and there was nothing.

 

**

 

"No. You responded to the alarms." Duo was flinching away, hiding his eyes. Lights, Zechs guessed belatedly, finally realising that when they’d left the pit they’d come back to the corridor lights on bright. He smacked the switch and plunged them into darkness. But he didn’t know how to interpret the rest of Duo’s distress. "Do you need to vomit?"

Only the emergency lights cast any glow on them. An odd, blue light, painting slats on the floor, over their skin. It made Duo look like a ghost—or a corpse. Zechs felt sick to his stomach.

"Come lie with me,” he said. “I'll get ice for your head."

Duo hadn’t responded to the last attempts to engage him. He moved when Zechs guided him by the shoulders. The airlock was closest to Zechs’ cabin, and that was where he aimed them, back to the bed they’d been sharing. Go back to sleep, he thought, and in the morning this would seem like a nightmare. There would be logic, and reasons. It would be—

Duo stumbled, and just like that, he went down. Zechs tried to catch him and nearly got pulled off his feet, unprepared for it. “Duo!”

Out cold. Burning with fever. Sweat dripping down his neck, when Zechs felt for his pulse. They were well beyond nosebleeds and tetchy stomachs now.

He carried Duo past his cabin and into the bath. He put the shower on cold steam and propped Duo upright in the corner of it. It came pulsing out of the walls, and he tried to stand out of the way and hold Duo up at the same time.

Hallucinations. And whatever this sudden headache was.

Cold pit of panic. He swallowed it down, and grimly kept it there.

It seemed to take forever, getting Duo cool enough to take back to bed, wishing constantly that he’d just wake and be fine. He was limp as a rag doll when Zechs carried him back to his bed, limp and chalky pale. He didn’t move, didn’t wake, while Zechs dressed him and covered him. He forced Duo to swallow two aspirin by pinching his nostrils shut and manipulating his throat to trigger an involuntary swallow. The computer recommended a compress, and he got that, too, his bath flannel dipped in water as cold as he could get it out of the sink.

Hours passed like that. It left him with nothing to do but the one thing he ought to have been doing since the day he’d joked about space sickness—think very carefully about the math. People didn’t just get sick on ships, not when they sat in quarantine for a week before travel, not when they underwent extensive physicals before boarding. People appointed to missions to the fragile Mars Colony did not dock if they showed the slightest sign of bringing bugs with them. If Duo hadn’t had it when he boarded, that meant—

It meant he either had something that batteries of tests hadn’t found, or, somehow, he’d been exposed to something once he was on their ship.

The math didn’t add.

“Computer,” he tried, on a flash that was half inspiration, half desperate guess. “Do you have any medical files for Agent Maxwell?”

“Voice access prompt,” was the obscure answer.

Voice access prompt. Password protected, that meant, which meant the files existed. Which meant the files existed, and Duo had locked them. Which meant Duo did not want him to know—either that he’d worried enough to ask these questions already, or to know the answers to them.

Zechs put the lid on his misgivings. Under normal circumstances he wouldn’t have had to spy on Duo’s communications, but they were no longer in normal circumstances. Zechs had been a soldier nearly all his life, and if there was one thing he’d seen proved time and again, it was that ignorance was deadly. If there was any information Duo was holding back, Zechs needed to know it.

“Computer,” he said. “Key the outgoing logs.”

“Seven outgoing messages,” it answered promptly, as if happy to be able to comply with a request at last.

He turned on the screen over his desk. “Show me.”

Three were his own. Two were confirmation messages Duo had sent within the first week of their trip, assuring the port they were operating smoothly and on course. There were two to Trowa Barton at Mars Alpha Base.

Interesting.

“Play Log 783.001,” Zechs said.

No image. It was Duo’s voice, alone.

“Hi,” it began. “Hi, Trowa. It’s Duo. Just checking in, I guess. I hope you’re well and that everything at work is too. Don’t fight with Wufei too much. I’m not there to break it up if it gets too physical.”

There was an unfamiliar note of self-consciousness in Duo’s voice. He sounded—more like the young man he was than Zechs was accustomed to hearing. A very normal young man making a routine call to a friend. Zechs felt guiltier for listening.

“I’m all right,” Duo continued awkwardly. “We’re getting on, me and Zechs, more or less. Not a lot to do but get on, yeah? I’m learning a language. When I get back I bet I won’t even speak English anymore. You won’t be able to understand a word I say. Though I guess you’d tell me that’s already the way of it. I-- This is a stupid question. I just—never mind. Anyway, I hope—look—did you ever think that I choose who I sleep with because they’re going to hurt me? Someone—someone I know said that. I guess I was just wondering if you thought it too, that I do that to avoid having to give anything ‘real’ to anyone else. I mean, we were real, right? Sure as hell not true love or anything, but we did all right, so I guess you’re as qualified to judge as—“

“End playback,” Zechs said quickly, not quickly enough. The wind had gone right out of him. He’d meant to—meant to shake Duo up, not hurt him. He’d had no idea. And of course Duo wouldn’t show that side to him, the man who’d—sadistically attacked his vulnerabilities. Relena, Noin too, criticised him for exactly that. He’d even felt justified in his anger.

“Next message,” he said quietly.

There was visual on this one. The computer supplied both Duo’s image and Barton’s. Barton was much as Zechs remembered, older; a handsomely carved face, fully revealed without that childish fall of hair to shield him. Golden stud in the left ear. Frown lines, at his young age.

"Still mad, huh?" Barton began.

It was a static-ridden connection, threatening to die at any moment. Duo slouched in the corner of his screen, a lock of hair between his teeth. They were far enough out that they would have had to coordinate times by email, get permission to direct satellites specially. This had to be important. Zechs leant forward unconsciously.

“I’ve got nothing to be mad about,” Duo answered. He played with the signal, trying to erase some of the visual noise and resolve Barton’s image, but he lost the contrast when he did.

“So you ran your blood?”

“Completely clean.” Duo shrugged. “I guess it was nothing.”

“You’re not a doctor. Run them again.”

“And you’re not my doctor. My doctor cleared me for flight,” Duo pointed out. “And you’re doing that constipated thing with your face.”

"You called me,” Barton said. “This isn't anything to fuck around with. Run the labs again, then call me when you're ready to stop being a bitch.”

“I wouldn’t have called if I’d known you were going to be a prick,” Duo muttered. “I’ve only got so much blood, I don’t want to be poking too many holes in myself.”

"You're going to call me, right?"

"Only if you say something nice to me right now."

Barton, two government satellites and hundreds of thousands of miles away, scowled at him.

"I'm waiting."

"You look hot in that suit." It was grudgingly offered. Barton wanted those tests.

Duo chewed his hair ragged. "I'm not exciting or sincere?"

For the second time, Zechs lost his breath.

Barton grimaced. "Sincere?”

"I'll call you. Bye."

“Baby, wait."

Snow obliterated Barton’s face. Duo cleared it with the dial and waited until it resolved. “Repeat,” he said.

It was choppy. Barton said, "What kind of mindfuck is Merquise pulling with you up there."

"It's not a mindfuck,” Duo said. He at least sounded surprised. “He's fine. He's nice. Ish."

"Are you fucking him?"

"Well, yeah.”

"Maybe you should stop until you get your test results." Barton paused too long, and Duo fought to restore the signal. “--fore you ask, yeah. I'm jealous."

Duo smiled slowly. "Thanks for the compliment. Finally."

"Those things you said-- "

"Look, it was a weak moment. Don't worry about it."

"There's nothing wrong with you. Okay? Whatever bullshit is going on with Merquise, don't forget I said so." Barton looked away from the screen. “Call me with the results.” He closed the line.

Zechs exhaled slowly. Those messages had been a font—or a minefield. Certainly—certainly a great deal that would require careful analysing.

He gingerly undid the knot of Duo’s bandana, moving slowly to avoid snagging loose hairs. He took his time, too, stroking each lock back into order. He bent to kiss Duo’s temple, and let his cheek lay against the base of the soft braid.

I’ll figure this out, he promised silently. Barton was right about one thing. There’s nothing wrong with you.

Duo was out through the end of his sleep cycle and a little more after, nearly fourteen hours. Zechs checked him—obsessively, maybe, afraid to go to sleep himself in case something worse happened. But all was quiet. They passed the space trash and went back into a clean route. He sat watching Duo; sometimes he lay down next to him, hoping each time he’d find Duo that much cooler, that much better.

All that, and he almost missed it when Duo finally woke. He was dozing at his desk, resting with his hand over his eyes.

“Where,” was the first thing Duo said.

He jolted awake. “Duo.” He rubbed his eyes to clear them. "Feeling better?"

Duo had matted hair and he was on the grey side of pale, but he responded to Zechs’ voice, and his gaze was clear. "I feel fine," he said cautiously. He cleared his throat with a cough. “… your cab?”

“My cabin, yes.” He had not expected that Duo might not have any memory of what had happened. He returned caution with his own rising wariness. "You had kind of a rough night." He could only hope Duo didn’t remember, if it came to that.

"I thought I dreamed that." Duo coughed again, dryly. "Or did I? You look like crap."

"Didn't get much sleep.” His neck cracked when he straightened. He wanted a shower badly. Even in the processed ship air, he felt clammy, stale. He rose slowly, all creaking joints. “Are you hungry? I could…”

Duo was slowly blushing. Humiliation. He’d remembered. Zechs didn’t stop him from leaving the bed in a rush. He tracked Duo’s progress by sound alone, and gave him time.

They’d been on ship for three months. More than three months. Whatever—virus, or infection—could it even be cancer? It was incredibly slow-moving. But it begged the question how much worse it would get. Steady escalation. Treize had always favoured it as a military tactic. Surprise, and steady escalation. Overwhelming force.

He had an inkling now what that would look like. And no idea at all if counter-measures even existed.

He lagged a few minutes until the noises retreated to the galley and stopped. He showered and took the time to shave away a few days of stubble. “Computer,” he said quietly. “Can we safely raise humidity again?” They had limited water resources, and moisture in the air could not be recycled the way their shower and sewage water was. If it came to humidity or drinking supply, there wouldn’t be a choice to make.

“To what specified degree?”

“Another five percent.”

There was barely a second’s pause while the computer ran the calculations. “Systems operations confirm humidity may be raised five percent for the term of two weeks, six days, seventeen—“

“Thank you, computer. Do it.” He hesitated. “Computer—switch to medical. Research the following symptoms. Hold report until I ask for it.”

Duo was still in the kitchen when he emerged. He was perched on the tabletop, one of his nutrient drinks in his hand. It was largely undrunk, though pale beige residue on the lip of the glass indicated one recent sip. He sat scowling at the wall. There was no mistaking that expression.

"Let me make you something to eat," Zechs repeated.

Duo noticed him abruptly. The glass finished its journey from rest to mouth, and he swallowed. "I'm not hungry."

"We've talked about those shakes."

"I'm not hungry,” Duo said. “I'm not gonna eat when I'm not hungry."

Maybe it was what had happened during the night cycle. Maybe it was the glass in Duo’s hand. Whatever it was, he looked. He really looked. And wondered how he hadn’t noticed it happening. Duo had been slender when they boarded, but he was thin as a rail now, his cheekbones sharp enough to cut. He was wasting away, but Zechs had been blind to the daily progress of it. Not processing the nutrients? He would have lost weight on a purely liquid diet, but the supplements should have provided a healthful balance. Never hungry. He would have to add to the list of symptoms he’d given the computer.

He took out the boiler and one of the curry packets. Duo had a pugnacious tone, but little as he wanted to risk an argument, he was determined to put real food down Duo’s gullet. Simple sugars and starches to start. Fruit. They still had a good store of dried.

In the silence, Duo said, "I know we can't pretend I didn't—whack out. But I'm not dying. Don't treat me like an invalid."

Dying. The word fell between them as if weighted in lead, and took Zechs’ stomach with it. He had to swallow before he could speak. "We don't know what's wrong with you."

Duo didn’t answer that.

He cooked a cupful of instant rice and dropped the curry packet into the boil atop it. It cooked no more than five minutes, but it was five minutes of welcome mindlessness. Emotionally battered numb.

“I think it’s done,” Duo minded him softly.

Yes. He’d missed the ding of the timer. He drained the rice and divided it between two plates, and cut open the curry. It smelled too strongly of lime.

"Try for me," he asked.

"I'm not hungry."

He put Duo’s plate on the table beside him. His hand shook. "Then tell me what is going on. Because I think I have a right to know."

"I don't know,” Duo said forcefully. “I'm never sick. I've never been sick in my life."

"You've been sick since we got on this ship."

"We don't know I was sick before launch." Duo overrode him. "I checked out clean or they wouldn't have let me come. We both checked out clean--"

He opened his mouth to argue. But there was no point.

Duo licked his lips. "I took blood samples,” he admitted, almost inaudibly. “Two weeks ago."

"What's Barton saying about this?"

It took a moment for both of them to realise where he’d stumbled. Duo’s eyebrows slammed together, and he slid off the table, forcing Zechs back a step, his back to the counter, to the fading heat of the stoveplate. "You read the logs," he accused.

“Yes, I read them, damn it. Someone has to take control of things here. You're—"

He just managed to stop himself from saying it. Hoped to God that Duo hadn’t heard it hanging there.

Duo hovered on the verge of explosion. He could feel it vibrating off him in waves. Zechs didn’t fuel it, physically restrained himself from baiting the issue.

"He said take more samples," Duo ground out.

"And?"

"That's all."

"Did you exchange any emails, any private communications? He had no insights or advice to offer?"

"He said take more god-damn samples!"

"All right. Calm down." Duo looked away, sheer self-preservation. Zechs took his own deep breath. "Have you? Taken more samples?"

"I didn't get to it."

"We'll do it today."

Duo was still angry. Always so angry. Zechs was suddenly fed up with it. He hadn’t exercised his own temper, not once, on this ship, had confined himself to the most courteous behaviour he could manage, the way an officer, a gentleman did. And Duo took every opportunity to undercut him, to mock his restraint, his notions of honour and obligation. He knew Duo had issues with ‘Earthers’, with Zechs himself, but there was no call for this. He may have spied on private transmissions, but Duo had driven him to it by refusing to disclose a potential bombshell. There were two of them on a ship, and it had been Duo’s own idea for them to spend their free time engaging in every possible invitation to contamination.

"I'm afraid," he said flatly.

Duo’s eyes flickered from their provocative stare. The set of his shoulders slipped just a bit.

Zechs exhaled. “We'll get through this." It took effort to gentle his voice, but he did it. He touched Duo’s cheek, and smoothed the tangled hair back into the braid. “Let’s take the samples, then eat.”

Duo moved free of him, twitching his hair over his shoulder possessively. "Yeah."

"Please come here."

"What."

"I need to touch you, damn it." He was unwontedly hoarse. Even he winced at the need it conveyed.

And Duo didn’t have it in him to be the one who came back, not even when he was needed. You could ask, and he would consider it, but if you pushed him, you missed everything that was Duo. Yuy was the one with the reputation for steel, but Duo was the most resistant human being Zechs had ever met.

He didn’t wait long. He took his curry with him, and he went back to his cabin, alone.

 

**

 

Zechs slept hard. Didn’t wake even when Duo scratched on his door, a courtesy they hadn’t been paying each other for a month. Duo stood over him for a little while, wondering if he ought to worry about the complete lack of protective instincts. But who was there to protect against, out here?

He took the book off the shelf, and sat at Zechs’ desk to read it.

"I want to say so many things to you.”

Hours later. Back into Zechs’ night cycle. Duo marked his page with a finger and turned to face the man.

“I wish you weren't unwilling to hear them," Zechs added softly.

Duo dropped his eyes to the book cover. There was something to that.

Zechs sighed, and sat up. "I'm sorry." He swung his legs over the side of the bed, but didn’t rise.

"Computer says try antibiotics,” Duo said. He traced the faded gilt title. “Broad-spectrum. Kill it off, whatever it’s likely to be, and it’s not sure. I've started a round." He forced his hand into stillness. "Probably should have done from the start."

Zechs nodded. “How you feeling?”

“Fine. Scared. But, you know, perky.”

Zechs cracked a smile. Duo returned it, glad to see it there.

“We should turn back,” Zechs said then.

“No.” Duo let the book close and put it on the desk. “No. The antibiotics will work.”

“And if they don’t?”

“I’m not inclined to be pessimistic about it.”

“I’m ranking officer.” Almost inaudibly posed. Duo set his jaw.

“We’re closer to Zebra Tango than we are to Earth, now. There’s a full medical facility there. If I need anything stronger than antibiotics, we’d be better off keeping course.”

Zechs couldn’t argue with that logic. Duo didn’t give him time to figure a way around it, anyway.

“Was thinking I’d shower,” he said, and if that was overly casual, it at least caught Zechs’ attention. “Tight fit for two, but…”

Maybe they had their differences. Duo might have said they were nothing but differences, except for that: the way any hint of proposition sparked this immediate electric current between them. Say anything about them, but they had chemistry. Duo rose from the chair, took the three steps across the little room, and carefully took hold of the shoulder straps of Zechs’ sleeping shirt. His knuckles pressed lightly to bare skin, and they both went to gooseflesh, instantaneously. And maybe it was stupid, but Duo took confidence from that. He knew how to speak in touch. He knew the right things to do, knew all the steps that led to peace and quiet and mutual satisfaction. He closed his eyes on any guilt, on any doubt, closed his eyes and forged on. That was what he knew how to do.

“Yes,” Zechs rasped.

He was set to lead the way to the shower. But whatever imp in him had to push the limit came up with an idea, and it dogged him. They made it all the way to the bath before he made up his mind to risk it. He changed direction with a step, and Zechs followed curiously.

“So, I’ve got these mags… comics, really…” He led the other man to his cabin. He had a moment of disorientation, realising he hadn’t been in there for—nearly a full colony day, by now. But he recovered, and opened his desk drawer to pull out the pages in question. “Private vice, if you know what I mean.” Gift from Heero, which he didn’t say, figuring they had enough unexplained between them without dropping that bomb. He flipped through until he found one he thought might work, and turned with it, trying to hide his trepidation.

Zechs took it from his hand and opened it. One moment became five, then ten, as Zechs paged through, expression inscrutable.

Then he slapped it closed. "Read it a week ago,” he said. “We can do better."

Duo laughed in delight. "I knew you had a hound dog in you somewhere."

Zechs bent low and bit him on the jaw. "Vanilla, my ass."

It was a tight fit in the shower, mostly thanks to Zechs’ bulk. He pushed Duo in ahead of him, and Duo didn’t complicate it by trying to face him. There was really only one way to do shower sex, in his experience. Zechs reached around him to start the steamer, and water expelled in droplets from all around them at a comfortably warm temperature. The door closed behind them, and Zechs moved in close, skin brushing skin from shoulders to bare feet. Duo spread his arms up and back. He encountered some wet hair that definitely wasn’t his, draping over his shoulder. He tangled his fingers in it.

Slippery fingers. Zechs had found the liquid soap. He widened his stance obligingly and braced an arm against the wall. Teeth pinched the skin of his shoulder in a teasing bite. There was no coaxing, no misdirection, no long flirtation; two fingers pressing deep, rubbing just enough to excite him past the discomfort as something larger replaced them. He breathed through the intrusion, focussed on the hands gripping his hips, on the shaky exhale at his ear, the blast of the steam against his cheek and eyelids. There was just a little pause in the urgency, then, and that was when he let himself feel it, splitting him wide, comforting and startling and amazing all at once.

It occurred to him, then. This was the point where they usually botched things. Hurt feelings. Insults exchanged that should’ve been flippant nothings. But everything was going pretty swimmingly, given what had brought them to it. They hadn’t even had to renegotiate.

Feel a little hope? That was something to worry about.

He caressed the nearest thigh humping up against him. Followed it back to the hand on his own hip. He twined their fingers, then slowly dragged upward. Zechs fucked slow and deep, not so hard he didn’t take a little direction. Duo brought a thumb that wasn’t his own to his nipple, guided it to press and then to fondle, then to twist. Damned good. The other hand curled around his cock and found it ready to go. Strokes to match the action backdoor, slow, determined.

He brought the hand he held to his mouth and licked the thumb, then closed his lips around it. He sucked gently, then harder, the pointer too. Zechs shivered against his back, and he growled. God. Duo shivered too, at that. Teeth again on the back of his neck, then the joining of his shoulder and collar, right at the nerve bundle.

“Fuck,” he said softly. "Again."

Zechs obeyed. Little nips made a path down to the upper muscle of his arm flung up against the wall while his fingers went back for some fresh soap. Everything went slick and fast.

He bit his own arm. "You want anything, you better ask for it soon."

"I'm where I want to be," Zechs whispered.

They were doing so well. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to take a little—a cautious little—risk. He knew how Zechs felt about freaky sex. Cautiously. He said, "Can you..."

"Say it." Zechs lipped his ear, warm breath, wet tongue.

"Don't wanna freak you out." He laughed breathlessly.

"I won't, damn it. Ask me."

In for a penny. He asked it. "Can you get a finger in there too? Don't hurt yourself."

A pause. An outright pause in every movement, and his body felt the lack. "I'll hurt you," Zechs said eventually. Duo opened his mouth for an answer, but then, like a thrown switch, everything started going again. And the hand on his hip slid back, cupping, parting his cheeks.

Duo bit his lip, and closed his eyes. "Trust me."

He did it, no more hesitation than that. Pressed in the knuckle.

His back arched without his conscious direction. Fuck, it was tight. It was almost unbearable. Zechs pushed out and in, finger and cock together. Fucking huge. Amazing. Slow, at first, but when he didn’t complain, speeding up to pace. Duo panted into the crook of his own elbow. Pressure rising, and the itch had started, the slow burn, revving up for the finish.

"Oh, baby, tell me now if you need anything."

"Scream for me when you come." Zechs gave Duo another finger, knuckle-deep in a single plunge.

He was all but plastered to the wall now. It wasn’t usually in him to let go and make a big fuss of noise, but if that was what Zechs wanted from him, this was a good time to try it. He let out a groan when Zechs—felt like a fucking freight train—a groan was the least he could do, embarrassed as it made him feel. And it made a considerable difference. Zechs was wild, suddenly, just pounding him into the wall, like that was all he’d ever needed. Duo groaned again and got the breath knocked out of him. For a few golden minutes he forgot everything north of ground zero and just rode out the building heatwave. He hovered at the heights for just—aeons—it wasn’t quite a scream, but his throat was sore, after.

They rested against each other, silent and still.

Zex eased away at last, leaving a void behind and dropping kisses along his back as he went. Duo caught him by the hair belatedly, feeling like he was moving through wet concrete, lifting a hand that high. Open lips travelled his neck and his jaw, latched onto his mouth with inescapable force.

And then the water turned off.

That, Duo thought, was unfortunate. It was going to get cold fast. "We probably used out the recycler for the week," he said, the most protest he could muster.

Zechs laughed gently. "We'll live."

“I bet not. You're the cleanest guy I know." He tugged lightly on the pale blond lock he held, then let it fall. His head, entirely too heavy to be held up independently, drooped down to rest on Zechs’ sternum. He mouthed lazily at a patch of curly chest hair.

Zechs’ voice rumbled deep in his chest. "We should dry off."

"Have to?"

“We'll get the bed wet if we don't."

“It'll dry." He pulled Zechs in for another kiss. He got it, but Zechs went fumbling around behind his back all through it, and trussed him up in a towel even when he whined against it. Mr Vanilla was obviously back in town. But Zechs had earned it. Duo knew he’d pushed the boundaries, but Zechs had been willing to go, and he deserved a little return consideration.

“I need a few more hours of sleep, I think,” Zechs murmured. His lips pressed to Duo’s temple. “Nap with me?”

“Baby,” Duo said, “just try to stop me.”


	5. Five

“Buggerfuck,” Duo said. He slammed the book closed and tossed it to the table.

Zechs closed the comic from Duo’s porn collection that he was reading, and set it beside the book. “Bored?”

“My head hurts.” He’d complained of headaches frequently since starting the antibiotics. “I can’t think right now. In English, so fuck Russian.”

Zechs checked the clock over the sink. It was evening for both of them; he had finally moved to Duo’s schedule, determined to keep a closer eye on him. They were due for a sleep cycle, but not for a few hours. "We could try one of my other books," he suggested.

"Don't want to." Duo listlessly picked at a ragged fingernail. He was wearing one of Zechs’ jumpers over his suit, and still seemed cold. It was hard to tell what was a symptom and what was a side-effect of the injections, but Duo wasn’t doing well, and it was painful to watch.

“I have a deck of cards somewhere."

"Yeah, fine.” Duo sighed, and put his head down on the table. “Okay."

They weren’t where he thought he’d put them, and he had to dig through his luggage for the packet. He displayed them like a trophy when he returned. “Fresh cards, never used. What should we play?"

"You do poker?"

"Don't all soldiers?" He pulled the chair to the table and opened the cardboard box. "I kept myself in contraband for two years on poker winnings."

He got a reluctant smile for that. Duo stuck his nail between his teeth and hunched over the edge of the couch while Zechs shuffled the crisp cards. He set the deck on the table before Duo. “Cut it.”

Duo halved it neatly. He tapped the top card with his pointer finger. "What'd you get?"

Zechs flipped it over. "Seven of spades."

“I mean what kind of contraband."

He smiled enigmatically. "That'd be telling."

But Duo wasn’t in the mood for teasing. He didn’t respond, except to chew harder at his nail.

Zechs dealt their cards, five each, the most basic of games. Duo took his time arranging them. There was a slight rash on his hands, dry red skin stretched over his bony knuckles. Zechs mimicked him, setting his cards in order. He’d dealt himself a poor hand, as it happened. "Stakes?" he asked.

"I don't care. Whatever you want."

"Loser has to tell a story. It can be complete fiction, but it has to be good."

He won another reluctant smile, and considered that a victory. "Okay," Duo agreed.

"How many cards?"

"Two."

It had been impossible not to notice Duo, even during the wars. Even when he was a child. Duo had a kind of wild, furious magnetism; every encounter, even from a distance, had been a taste of chaos and unpredictability. Zechs was, would always be, a man who treasured order, discipline, the rigorous suppression of emotion, a rigid adherence to logic. Duo made him remember that discipline could be carried too far, that logic could be soulless. Eyes that were bright even now, constantly roving, searching, seeing too much. Quick nervous movement—but a sure touch, too, absolute control and grace.

He liked Duo’s mouth, he found himself thinking. It was wide, and generous, expressive. Maybe it hadn’t smiled so much, since boarding in Japan, but there was something tender about it, anyway.

“Two,” Duo reminded him.

Zechs dealt them obediently. “And the dealer takes three." He discarded a seven, jack, and four, and peeled the top three from the deck. "Do you want to raise the stakes?" he asked. He hadn’t much improved his hand.

"Raise 'em what?"

He said it blandly, not looking at Duo. "I don't know. I'm asking. Do you want more than a story?"

Duo was quiet a moment, one of those unreadable silences. Abruptly he answered, "Raise you one backrub."

Zechs was pleased. Duo had been painfully quiet lately, and it was good to see him engaging in the game. He said, "I call your backrub and raise you a... laundry. Loser tells a story, gives a backrub, and does the laundry."

“You’re on.”

Zechs had called; he had to show his hand. He fanned the cards over the table with a dramatic wince. "Pair of threes."

"Jacks." Duo dropped his hand to the table.

A good hand. "Want your story and your backrub together?"

"Play another round first."

He slipped their cards back into the deck and pushed it toward Duo. “Your turn, then.”

"New rules." Duo shuffled quickly and dealt them a card each, face down. "Lowest upcard bets."

It was sharper than Duo had been in days. He was glad he’d thought of the cards. A little competition seemed to be working wonders. He flipped his card; a queen of hearts. Duo’s was a four diamond.

"Loser sings a bar song," Duo opened the betting.

Zechs laughed. "A bar song? I don't think I know any of those."

Duo rolled his eyes. "That figures." He rubbed his eyes, and sighed. "You bet. I don't care."

"No, no. I'll come up with something. If I lose."

Duo dealt another card for them both, face up. Six for Duo, a ten for Zechs. It was Duo’s bet again. Zechs raised an expectant eyebrow, but Duo couldn’t seem to think of anything. His finger was starting to get raw from being gnawed at.

"Loser... has to explain why he's never been in a bar before."

A tiny tease. Zechs chuckled. "I never said I hadn't been in a bar."

"Loser goes naked for a day."

In retrospect he ought to have anticipated Duo would turn it toward sex. He made a face, because he knew Duo would expect it, but didn’t protest.

"Highest upcard bets or checks now." Duo slapped their cards to the table. He got a five; he was pleased, sitting straighter with a small smile. Zechs had a three of clubs.

They both had shitty hands, and it was Duo’s bet or call. Zechs waited patiently. It took Duo nearly a minute to decide.

He said, "Loser cuts a lock of hair."

He was a little shocked. That was no joke. "Unless your next two cards are excellent, you'll lose, Duo."

"Maybe I'll be lucky."

"Maybe." He was hesitant. “It’s only a game,” he started, but Duo was already dealing.

A three for Zechs. He was in a position to win, if Duo didn’t make a straight.

Duo got an eight.

Blowjob, Zechs imagined. Or some unusually adventurous sexual position. Not that Duo had been interested in sex, this past week. But they were running out of favours they could owe, on a ship where neither ran up many difficulties.

"Loser eats whatever winner cooks," Duo said.

Zechs outright grinned. Food had been a bone of contention between them. It was a gesture, a purely symbolic gesture, an ameliorative little liniment over all the fuss Duo had put up on him. Especially as it looked like Zechs was going to win.

"Perfect." He even felt a little smug. "Deal the last card."

Duo obeyed. He laid out Zechs’ first: a two. Zechs pushed his pair of threes to the forefront.

“Seems to be my good hand,” he commented.

“We’ll see.” Duo took his time, drawing out the suspense with a hint of his old playfulness. He slipped the card from the top of the deck to the tabletop, and peeked under the corner. His shoulders slumped.

Oh, Zechs thought guiltily.

Duo turned the card up. Seven. He had his straight.

Zechs narrowed his eyes. "Did you deal that off the bottom of the deck, Maxwell?"

Duo held up both hands. "Swear."

He huffed dramatically. "Bring me the scissors."

"You don't really have to cut your hair," Duo said apologetically. "I was being a jerk."

"A bet's a bet." He didn’t mind. Really. It was just... hair. Duo was the one who was so overly attached, not him.

Duo didn’t move. When Zechs did, Duo reached to stop him, but Zechs was quicker. There was a pair in the utility drawer, flimsy thin blades with a handle too small for his large hand. Why was his heart beating faster? It was just hair. It would grow back. He had plenty of it.

"I'll do it," Duo said suddenly.

He returned to the chair. Duo took the scissors from him and stood behind him. “You’re aware this is stupid?” Duo asked.

“You’ve never run from anything, in real life.”

“This is not real life.” Duo sifted through his hair with little brushes of his fingers. It raised a shiver up his spine. He separated a thick handful over Zechs’ shoulder.

“Like hell it isn’t.”

The scissors made that unique razor sound as they cut. It was a small snip, but he felt it as if it were cutting skin. There was a slight little tug, as Duo pulled the lock free.

Zechs drew a deep breath that shuddered more than he wanted it to. "Not too painful."

He could feel Duo’s regret. Knuckles brushed softly over his neck; then soft lips.

"It's fine, Duo." He pulled Duo onto his lap, and Duo came easily, for once, bony behind and awkward elbows and all. His stocking feet dangled.

“Admit it,” Zechs murmured. “You like me.”

Duo pinched his lips together and occupied himself gazing at the wall. He twisted the long cut lock of hair through his fingers.

“Coward.”

“You’re just dying for the words?”

“Yes.”

He took a minute, getting them out, staring at the wall as if it held answers to deep mysteries. “Fine,” he grudgingly allowed. “I like you.”

His heart, just recently returned to normal, skipped a beat. “Thank you,” he said evenly. “I like you, too.”

“You’re a prince among men.”

He laughed at the irony of that. “Duo—“

“A delicate flower. A blushing rose. So perfect and so peerless, created of every creature’s best—“

“You have a beautiful mouth,” he said quietly, interrupting that increasing flow of sarcasm. He kissed Duo’s lips, caught hanging open mid-word.

Duo scowled. “I already said I like you. You don’t have to lay it on so thick.”

He let that pass with a second quick kiss. "Will you keep it?" he asked, nodding to his hair in Duo’s hand.

"If you like."

"I would."

Duo wrapped it carefully and pocketed it beneath the jumper. But he didn’t get up or try to squirm away, so Zechs made no gesture to let him go. Instead he wrapped his arms around Duo, gratified when he actually allowed it. He even let Zechs pet his hair; even let Zechs lightly massage his back, the slender column of his neck.

"Backrub down too, then," he said idly, after a few minutes of silence.

They were just under a month away from Zebra Tango. It seemed like that would be plenty of time. Would they turn around? He didn’t know. Probably they would have to. Even if Duo recovered, they needed to know what had infected him and how he’d got it, and Mars wouldn’t allow them to dock if they didn’t have those answers. Five months again, then, back to Earth.

"This doesn't count,” he murmured. “It's just because it feels good.” It did feel good. Permission to hold and touch. And that admission, that had been a long time coming. "You win with more grace than I would have."

"Only ‘cause I’m too tired to gloat.”

"It's true." He kissed Duo's neck. "I'm tired, too. Can I get a night’s forgiveness on the rest of my debts?"

“With interest.” Duo slipped off his knees to the floor.

“My room tonight?”

"All right." The answer was just a bit tentative.

Why tentative? "I won't pounce you," he said, since Duo seemed wary. He waited for the nod, and stood himself. Then swept Duo off his feet and up into his arms. He was just a bit unsteady; his legs were tingling. Maybe Duo was heavier than he looked, or those bony hips had been pinching nerves. He ducked Duo out of the kitchen portal and carried him up the corridor to his cabin.

Duo was smiling at the end of the hike. "I've still got legs."

"Shh. I'm enjoying this." He flopped backward onto his mattress, still holding Duo. “Oof,” he pretended to wince, and reached for the light.

There was a bit of mutual wriggling as they sought comfortable positions. Then Duo touched him, searching down his belly for his groin. "We could,” he whispered. “If you wanted."

Did Duo want? He was by no means sure Duo actually felt up to it. But the idea of making out a little appealed, and Duo had exceedingly clever fingers. They had both missed this, he thought. Zechs rolled to face him, and in the dark they each found the other’s mouth. He sucked Duo’s tongue into his mouth, and they traced abstract patterns against each other, leisurely wet movements, gentle exhalations. Duo’s hand stayed cupped to his groin. He massaged with little fits and starts as his concentration wavered, never consistent enough to get Zechs fully hard, but enough to build a banked fire. Zechs moved his hand under the jumper and found the top velcro tab of Duo’s suit. He tugged it open slowly, pulled it open enough to palm one nipple.

Duo made a soft, encouraging noise.

He trailed the edge with his fingertip until it tightened. He chased Duo’s tongue back into Duo’s mouth and painted the rim of his teeth. Duo’s hand found his hair. Did anything hurt, he wondered, were there any hints Duo was pressing beyond his endurance? This was so unlike all their previous sexual encounters. It was almost—lovemaking.

He settled Duo on his back on the bed. There was enough light from the hall to see the outline of Duo’s face, his eyes closed, his lips parted still. He settled slowly between Duo’s thighs. It was a delicious pressure, pressed together, warmth to warmth, that he wouldn't have minded maintaining for an hour or three while they kissed and petted. He didn’t want to talk. He had nothing meaningful to say. He just wanted to hold Duo. They rocked together, so slowly. And he was thinking again, with every heartbeat, about saying that word that he knew would send Duo running. It was only fear that stopped him, but he kissed Duo instead, said it with coaxing, teasing bites, the venturing of his fingers over Duo’s chest.

A deliberate squeeze of his upper thigh summoned his attention. He rested his forehead against Duo’s.

"We don't have to do anything more than this," he murmured.

"You don't want to?"

With the offer spoken aloud—he did, yes. But he didn’t have to.

Duo squeezed him again. “Gotta use up the lotion bottle."

"Are you sure?"

"Go get it."

He didn’t have to look for it, at least. It sat on Duo’s bedside table. He fetched it, and Duo’s ragged flannel as well, and the pillow. He turned off the kitchen light, which they had forgot, and padded back to his cabin.

Duo did not stir when he came in. He wasn’t sure if he was grateful for that.

He set the lotion and flannel on his desk and shed his clothes, then slipped back into his bed. Duo’s breaths were deep and regular, his body limp. He had been hiding the truth, after all. Zechs ought to have known.

He was trying to remove Duo’s hairband without waking him when he felt it. The pillow was wet. He turned on the light, but he already knew what it was. Blood, pooling on the cotton. Duo’s head lolled when Zechs rolled him away from it. His face was streaked red with the volume of it, but it had stopped. Nothing new seeped when he wiped Duo’s nose with the side of his hand.

He wet the flannel in the bath and cleaned Duo, and threw the stained pillow case in their laundry hamper. Duo never woke throughout.

"Don't you dare leave me," he whispered.

 

**

 

The first thing he did on waking was check with the computer for a call from Barton.

It was there. He couldn’t understand how he’d slept through the message. The computer was instructed to alert them to any urgent incoming calls even in the night cycle. But there it sat, the top item on the queue, received nearly eight hours earlier.

It finally occurred to him, the longer he stared at it, that it wasn’t flagged as ‘urgent’. And that did not make sense. When they’d sent Duo’s new results to Barton for analysis, they had agreed on procedure for communication.

“Did he call?” Duo asked sleepily.

Zechs turned the light on to dim. Duo rubbed sleep from his eyes and sat up. Rather than answer the question, Zechs said, “Did you sleep well?”

“Fine. Oh.” Duo coloured. Sheepishly, he said, "Sorry. At least I didn't fall asleep on top of you."

“We both passed out at once,” he lied. “I’m still halfway convinced this so-called ‘colonial daylight schedule’ of yours is really some kind of Alliance sleep-deprivation trick.”

“Straight out of Stolzen—Solsen—“ Duo licked his chapped lips. “Straight out of the book, that.”

He couldn’t help a tiny twinge. Duo should not have had trouble saying that name.

“Why don’t you take the shower first,” he suggested. “I’m going to listen to the message.”

Duo blinked. Zechs kept a level gaze. If Duo resented being excluded, no sign of it crossed his face. But he did look away to nod his acceptance, and he said nothing else as he slipped from the bed. Zechs heard him stop at his own cabin for a towel and fresh clothes, and moments later, the pipes began to rush.

Zechs scrubbed the stubble on his chin. “Computer,” he murmured. “Play new message.”

And then he sat up straight, surprised. It was not Barton’s image that appeared on the screen. It was Lady Une’s.

“Agents Maxwell and Merquise,” she said, her eyes tilted down toward something on her desk. It was her office, he recognised it, the utilitarian curtains over the large window and the ESUN flag peeking out of the corner. Whatever she was distracted with, she barely looked up at the screen once. “I understand you’ve been communicating privately with Dr Barton regarding a medical concern. Dr Barton may be a friend, but he is not the official medical personnel assigned to your mission. You will direct any further inquiry to Dr Amari, who is the qualified physician. I have ordered Dr Barton to turn over all records of this incident. I order you to do the same.”

There was nothing else. The screen went dark. “End message,” the computer announced quietly.

Oh, like hell that was all, Zechs thought. “Computer, record,” he snapped. “Lady Une,” he began shortly. “Message emphatically not received. I don’t know this Dr Amari from Adam, and even if I did, I see no reason to transfer the case. If you want our records, you better send me Barton’s findings first.” He felt a furious tremble in his hands and closed them to fists. “What the hell is going on down there, Une? He’s dying and I don’t know how to stop it. Don’t waste time jerking us around. Computer, end message and send.”

In the silence that followed his seething temper slowly leeched away. It left him cold. It left him with the sinking feeling that he’d given up precious information, shown a tell and given away the game. But he’d been so angry. Une didn’t resort to rules and regulations unless there was something in it for her, and that meant, could only mean, there was something going on with Duo’s illness that had her looking for her own advantage. But he drew a blank at what that could be.

And he’d told her Duo was dying. Had he been exaggerating for effect—or did he really believe that, somewhere deep, hiding it even from himself?

A throat cleared, behind him. Zechs turned, dry-mouthed.

It was Duo, his damp hair making wet stains on a new bandana—the paisley yellow one—wrapped to the throat in his own clothes, civilian clothes. Blue denims and a thigh-length camel-hair sweater. He looked, actually, very good.

“You went digging through the luggage,” Zechs observed.

“Tired of digging through yours.” He held out the borrowed jumper from the previous day.

“Thank you.” He folded it and placed it on the bed. “What are you holding behind your back?”

Duo theatrically produced a glass full up of muddy, lumpy nutrient shake. With a sprig from their last remaining mint plant on the top, artistically cocked at an angle.

That was worth a laugh. He didn’t quite have it in him, but he faked a smile, to the best of his ability. "I don't think that's going to help," he said.

Duo didn’t evidence that he’d overheard Zechs recording that message. He wore a smug little smile, with a hint of teeth in the grin. "Drink up, loser."

“A bet is a bet.” He reached for the glass. It wasn’t even cold.

"All of it, now. This is high-quality stuff."

He sipped it, and didn’t have to fake a shudder. "You hate me. Don't you?" He decided to drink it in gulps, doing his best not to taste it as it went down. "Tastes like chalk. And... dirt." He wasn’t exaggerating. It really did.

Duo’s grin widened.

"How do you stand it?" He finished the glass with a manful effort.

"Practice,” Duo said. “I swallow real good."

He licked the residue from his lip and grimaced. "You look like you feel better."

"Slept well, I think." Duo pulled back the sleeve of his sweater. "Show you something." He’d braided the cut lock from Zechs’ hair and wrapped it around his wrist like a bracelet.

He blushed; he knew he did, and reached out to touch it. He couldn’t think of a thing to say about it that wouldn't sound lame. It circled the knob of Duo’s wrist three times, loosely, secured with a bit of wire stolen from who knew where.

After a few seconds too long of silence, Duo backed away. "Well, that's two down,” he mumbled. “You still owe me a backrub and a day of naked."

He kissed Duo quickly. Had to choke back that desire to confess again.

Duo might have sensed it. He squirmed away. "You can feel free to start the naked at any time. Full twenty hours."

He gave a wince of protest, but nothing more. He was already clad only in his boxers, but there was a vast difference between that and completely unclothed. He stripped them, knowing he was red-faced again, grateful for the shield, however small, of his long hair. Duo’s grin reappeared as he tossed the last of his cotton safety away.

"I'm not used to this kind of thing, you realise," he said stiffly.

“Baby, you've could have any catwalk you wanted."

"That's the most terrifying thing you've ever said."

Duo laughed. His eyes were openly admiring, and Zechs wasn’t sure if that made it better or worse. Certainly there was nothing of each other they hadn’t seen, by now, but never not during sex.

Duo bundled up their laundry. "Might as well make yourself useful, too. I believe laundry was part of the bet, too."

“It was.” He accepted the pile; if he held it low, it offered a minimum of protection, at least. Duo whistled as he walked past. Zechs grit his teeth, and defiantly strutted down the corridor. He trailed Duo’s laughter.

But not Duo himself, who stayed in the cabin area. He knew Duo listened to the message from Une, but never appeared to talk about it. Perhaps he didn’t listen to the response Zechs had made. Zechs hoped not. He hovered uselessly in the kitchen as he made breakfast for himself, but Duo never so much as checked on him. Their cards were still scattered on the table, so he cleaned them, and put the book and the comic in a stack on a shelf. They had both got out of the habit of cleaning after themselves, alone on the ship.

He was halfway through his breakfast of rice and fish when his stomach rebelled. He didn’t make it to the bath, but stood weak-kneed over the sink as he retched.

It was over as soon as it began, and as abruptly. Even the smell of his sick didn’t move him. He rinsed it down the drain, and sent the rest of his rice after it.

"You okay?"

The sound must have summoned him. Zechs ran water over his mess. "Just peachy."

"The shake made you ill?" Duo seemed almost impressed. "Maybe they really are what's bad around here." He ventured in through the portal. “Blanket wasn’t up,” he said, motioning vaguely behind him. “You want some privacy?”

“I’m all right.” He was very aware, though, that he was still standing in the nude. He made a strategic retreat to the couch, and took the comic with him. Though the comic had perhaps not been the wisest choice. The page he opened to showed a hairless Asian boy splayed wide with a look of ecstasy as he fingered himself.

“Zechs.” Duo drifted closer step by step. He reached for the comic, brushing his fingers over the page. Zechs did not fight to keep it as Duo lifted it away, but did cover his groin with a hand, instinctive modesty. But Duo caught him and stopped him. He nudged the table out of the way, and went slowly to his knees.

Zechs did the stopping, this time. He tried to pull Duo back to his feet. "Just let me," Duo murmured.

"Why, Duo?"

"I would like to."

He let his head fall to the cushion. He felt Duo settle before him. "Are you going to allow me to reciprocate?"

"What makes you think I'm not getting anything out of this?" He petted Zechs’ thighs, then drew them apart gently. "Sometimes I just want to do something nice for you. This is something I know how to do right."

He’d been doing a lot of things right, lately. Zechs surrendered. He tilted his chin down to watch as Duo slid curious palms over his knees, his calves.

"Besides,” Duo added, “all the naked is, like, totally tempting my few remaining virtues."

"Who am I to suppress those urges, in that case."

Duo kissed his belly. His tongue made short swipes around Zechs’ navel, then pressed inside it, making him suck in his stomach reflexively on a shiver. Then Duo’s head rested on his hip, and his hand settled on the couch cushion between Zechs’ legs. He made an unhurried examination of Zechs’ cock, the touch of his fingertips almost too light to be felt.

“I’ve seen a lot of Johnsons,” Duo said. “Big ones, skinny ones… hairy ones…”

He knew Duo’s reputation, and knew by now it had probably been well-earned. It didn’t make him comfortable discussing the practicalities.

“I know the story is something you’re supposed to tell to me, but I want to tell you this one.” Duo combed the curls over his ballsac. It felt like tiny pinpricks, not painful at all—quite the contrary. He was getting hard, and Duo was close enough to go cross-eyed looking at it. But the little mumble went on. “I wasn’t abused or anything, like you. I never did anything I didn’t want to. On L2, your choices are pretty much drugs or sex, or if you’re really unlucky, both of ‘em. But you don’t live long in the drugs business, and you may not want to, with sex trade. I promised myself I’d do anything it took to get off the colony, and once I was off, there was nothing you could do to drag me back there, even if it meant I was going to die out in Space—I wanted to be free that bad. My whole life.”

“But you fought for the colonies.” Duo’s thumb found the slit on the crown of his penis and pressed it open. He couldn’t watch anymore. He dropped his head to the couch again and tried to envision anything else.

“I fought for an idea. Maybe if I’d been older, I’ve had known better.” Duo sighed. The exhale caressed him. “I fought because that’s what you do, where I come from. If you’re strong enough to fight back, you do it, because if you’re weak, there’s no-one going to protect you.”

“Not so different from the rest of the world.”

“I think you’re wrong about that. I think if you’d known what you were getting into with White Fang, if you’d really lived with us, maybe you wouldn’t have joined them. Maybe you wouldn’t have gone so far to fight for them, with the Libra and the mobile dolls.”

“There were a lot of factors, Duo.”

“I’m just saying—I don’t know. I’m just saying maybe they didn’t really deserve what you did, what I did, for them. It was for the idea. And you and me may not be the least bit alike but we have that. We were both young and stupid. And strong enough. But what do you do when you’ve won? Even ideas wear out.”

“Sex and drugs.” He carefully threaded his fingers into Duo’s hair. Duo laughed softly.

“I guess so,” he whispered, and slipped Zechs’ cock into his mouth.

He was already on the edge. He’d been on nerves about being naked, and the unresolved tension from the night before, both sexual and fearful—it was wet and hot, and Duo seemed to know he wanted, needed, something fast, something overwhelming, something to blot out too many thoughts that went no-where. Duo sucked him hard, and then let him down his throat and swallowed around him again and again and again. Zechs cried out, and crushed Duo’s head to his belly as he came.

Duo rested his head in Zechs’ lap. His thumb stroked Zechs’ hipbone, up, down, and then that rested too.

"Come here, off the floor." His voice was husky. He cleared his throat.

Duo obeyed. He set his knees on either side of Zechs’ legs and didn’t quite let his weight fall, but kissed him on the side of the jaw. "Shake would have been more nutritious," he said dryly.

"You can have one later." He kissed Duo on the mouth. Duo tried to keep his lips closed—it wasn’t the first time he’d resisted it after they had oral sex. But Zechs chose to force the issue. He pushed his tongue past Duo’s teeth and kissed him as thoroughly as he knew how.

And this time, he forced something else. He said, “I love you."

Because it was bloody well time. While Duo could still grasp it.

Duo’s face went still and blank. Zechs tried to touch his cheek, and Duo turned his head away.

"Don't," he said.

Don't touch, or don't love? Zechs let his hand fall. Duo swallowed visibly, and then suddenly he was moving. Zechs only barely caught him by the arms, and forced him to keep his place on Zechs’ lap. "Stop it,” he said harshly. “Don't make me guilty for caring about you."

"Nothing’s ever enough for you! You always have to have more out of me!"

"I didn't ask you to return the emotion. Only to let me."

He could feel Duo’s silent distress, radiating off him in waves. But he didn’t fight to run, and Zechs slowly released the deathgrip he had on Duo’s arms.

“I'm sorry," Duo finally whispered.

He cupped Duo’s cheeks. Duo would not meet his eyes. "Don't be. You've done nothing wrong."

"I know. I mean I'm sorry-- I'm just sorry."

He shook his head. "Shh."


	6. Six

When Barton’s message finally came, the computer woke them to hear it.

"I didn't ditch you,” Barton said. “Hang on. See you at Zebra Tango."

Duo turned to look at Zechs, his expression bewildered. "Une said he'd been transferred,” he said. “What in hell are they doing?"

Zechs didn’t know anything Duo didn’t. Barton he believed. Une was a different story—an entirely different genre, he suspected. She had never answered the message he’d sent demanding why Duo’s case had been transferred. He didn’t believe she meant to, not if Barton had abandoned post to help them. The Gundam Pilots were known as loose canons—well, Chang and Barton were, and Duo, to a lesser degree. Known for controverting command decisions when they disagreed, known for wild antics and disobeying rules. But going AWOL? That would be worth more than a slap on the wrist. That was a courts martial offence. Or was it? If he knew Une, and he was one of very few who could claim he did… what kind of deep game might she be playing? Maybe she knew exactly what Barton was doing—if she hadn’t sent him herself. But why? Who would she have to deceive?

Duo hadn’t made the same mental leaps of logic. He wore a confused frown. "Can't possibly leave a message that actually tells us anything?"

"Do you think every transmission in or out of here isn't monitored, Duo?"

Duo gaped at him. "Who's monitoring it? Why would they bother?"

"I don't know. I don't know. Whatever's happened to you can't have been planned. People will have to account for it."

"Planned?" Duo fumbled to climb over him off the bed, as if he could escape the shadow of conspiracy too. "What would anybody have to plan for?"

"We test weapons, Duo.” His shirt draped over the desk chair where he’d undressed earlier. He put it on against his nakedness and swung his feet to the floor. “Do they ever really tell us what we're playing with? No, listen to me. Would we care if they did? Of course we trust them."

Duo scowled at him from the doorway, but to Zechs’ eye he appeared worried, too. “You think someone exposed me to something?"

"I'm not saying they meant to." He wanted to replay Barton’s message, but knew he wouldn’t glean anything new from it. Certainly no reassurance. Until Barton messaged them again—or someone trying to find Barton did—they were in the dark.

"A cover-up?"

"This is the kind of thing that ruins careers. Or poison," he said, as it all the dire possibilities occurred to him. “I was ill after drinking that nutrient shake of yours, wasn’t I? And you’ve been drinking them all along, relying on them, and anyone on the flight team who went near your paperwork would have known your dietary plan from the minute you submitted it back in November. And how better to hide a murder than to put the victim on a ship for another planet?”

It was sinking in, for both of them. Duo hugged the bedsheet closer, but he couldn’t disguise the paleness of his face.

"Barton's coming,” Zechs said. “He'll have answers." He rose, and folded Duo into his arms. "Barton is coming,” he repeated.

"I'm calling Une.” Duo stubbornly resisted him and slipped away. “I want answers from her."

Zechs controlled his exhale through gritted teeth. "Do you really think she'll give them to you?" He turned to follow Duo’s progress back to the computer screen. Duo keyed the message queue for the call they’d had from Une a week earlier.

"She'll tell me the truth,” Duo said. “They wouldn't-- they wouldn't abandon us out here, they wouldn't-- Preventers wouldn't do that."

"Christ, you're naive."

Duo ignored that. "She'll clear everything up. Trowa might be in trouble, who knows. This could all be routine. Computer, record reply."

Zechs threw up his hands, but didn’t protest further. Duo would do what he had to, until the truth inevitably outed. For Duo’s sake, he hoped he was wrong, but it made too much sense. Preventers could abandon them, and had.

"I got your call,” Duo was saying. “Hoping you could add some information. Wondering why Barton got dropped from my case. Please advise."

They were silent after the computer sent the message. Duo pulled the sheet over his shoulders and scraped loose hair away from his forehead. Zechs watched him until it became clear Duo was avoiding his eyes. He wasn’t surprised when Duo dressed quickly, agitatedly, and left him without saying another word, including an invitation to follow. Of course.

He gave Duo, in the end, two hours of privacy. It was in short supply and he knew Duo’s moods intimately by now, knew when a tantrum welcomed coddling and when it rejected all comfort. But he could hear Duo pacing in the other cabin, hear him fiddling with the air controls. The flow from the vent became noticeably warmer. When he heard the furniture moving and music blaring a heavy Latin beat, however, he gave up giving Duo time alone and went up the corridor to see what he was up to.

He was, as it turned out, stacking his chair on the desk to clear extra floor space. He sat on his duvet on the floor, stretching for exercise.

Zechs dropped into a crouch to hold Duo’s ankles for him. "Planning to wear yourself out?" he asked.

"She'll call," Duo answered flatly.

"It could take days." At least a day cycle, if she replied immediately. Twice that, if she took time to think it over. And twice that again before Duo accepted she didn’t mean to call at all. “Are you going to calm down at any point between now and then?"

Duo’s arms tensed above his head; then they fell limp on his thighs. Oh, he knew, Zechs thought. Duo didn’t hide from the truth. He just tried to outrun it, sometimes.

“When I think of how long I kept begging them for a promotion.” Duo’s eyes dropped. “I interviewed six times. I told them I believed in the mission. That I thought if people thought they could be better, then it wasn’t enough to just go on thinking about it. We had to make it happen. Preventers is about doing, not thinking about doing.”

“You’re right.”

“Yeah, well, now they’re thinking about doing me in.” Duo ground his teeth. “I don’t know what’s worse. Feeling like a fool for not guessing why I got offered this flight, or feeling like a fool for taking it.”

He couldn’t help himself. He curved a hand to Duo’s cheek. “I took it, too,” he said. “And I can’t say that I regret that.” He got a reluctant smile for that, and brushed Duo’s nose with a knuckle. "Can I bring you something to drink?"

"Any alcohol on this boat?" Duo managed a thin note of humour.

There were a lot of things they’d been discouraged from bringing aboard, perhaps ridiculously. Alcohol was top of that list, as they were technically on duty for the entire nine months of travel. But Zechs hadn’t made a career of following the rules, and books weren’t the only thing he’d brought with him. It had been intended as a gift for the Mars Colony commander. Ping would have to content himself without it.

Duo was flat on his back on the floor when he returned carrying a half glass. He opened his eyes when Zechs resumed his crouch and held it out. "What's that?" he asked curiously.

"Vodka,” Zechs said. “And that's all you're getting, so don't ask."

Duo sat up quickly. "You brought juice on this trip? How'd you get it past the baggage inspection?"

He shook his head.

Only another second passed. Duo reached for the glass. At the first sip, his eyebrows shot up.

"Go slowly."

Duo was the one to shake his head this time. "You shouldn't waste that on me. I know the difference between good and bad, but..."

"You don't have to drink it if you don't want it, but don't refuse it because you're not good enough. That's just stupid."

Duo hesitated. But he did drink it, sip by sip, and shot the last swallow back with a grimace. His hand shook as he wiped his mouth.

"You're to tell me if you feel ill." His fingers knew the path through Duo’s plait, the silky braided hairs, the whispery tuft beneath the elastic. “They're not going to leave us twisting in the wind."

Duo nodded minutely.

"You're white as a ghost."

He looked up from the glass in his hand. He said, "I wanna fuck."

He was not in the least surprised. "All right, love."

He helped Duo to his feet. Duo was pulling his shirt from his trousers before he even bent his head for the first kiss. Duo returned it, but with a hard pressure of the lips, teeth biting into his lower lip. Zechs held him still with firm hands on his head, trying as he could to gentle things, but he knew already it was futile. He knew Duo’s moods too intimately. Maybe one day there would be time to teach Duo that there were other ways to comfort the spirit than the physical—but it wouldn’t be this day. He wasn’t sure how far he ought to let Duo drive them, though. He was so fragile now. He could hardly weigh ninety pounds, and he was so warm he felt feverish. The pitch of intensity in the kiss worried him.

They hit the wall. Duo pressed him stationary there, and all but ripped him out of his shirt. Zechs did the best he could to slow the process, deliberately clumsy as he worked the buttons on Duo’s cardigan, bumping Duo’s impatient hands off their course. They were both shirtless when he thought he risked Duo’s irritation with him boiling over, and he began to move them toward the bed.

Duo erupted into a wrenching cough. The force of it bent him over, and Zechs grabbed him by the elbows to support him. The move pulled Duo’s hand away from covering his mouth. Duo tried to turn away, but it was too late. Zechs jumped when something warm and wet spattered his bare chest. Blood.

Duo jerked free, and ran.

He was shaken. Too much too quickly, he told himself—break it down and deal with the easiest first. He was calm by the time he’d wiped himself clean with his bathing flannel. He dressed himself and collected Duo’s things, too. There’d been no sound of Duo after his flight, but the door of the accommodation was shut. He knocked gently.

“I can’t get one damn minute?” Duo said hoarsely.

“Of course.” He would have given it, too, except for what he heard next. He’d tutored more than enough young cadets to know the sound of stifled tears. He depressed the latch and let himself in.

Duo sat on the commode. He hastily wiped his blotchy cheeks, but missed a drip trembling at his jawline. Zechs wiped it away with his palm. “There’s no shame.”

“It’s the drugs. I’m all over the fucking place.”

"Should I really give you some space?" he asked softly.

"I've got nothing but space. I'm fucking out of time, it looks like."

He knelt at Duo’s knee and gripped his chin tightly. "Don't talk like that. We're not giving up."

Duo didn’t stay to be reassured. He pushed to his feet and slapped on the faucet in the sink. Zechs stood by as Duo washed his face and rinsed his mouth with a handful of water. He spat until it ran clear. It had lasted no longer than the nosebleeds, at least.

"’Yes, Zechs,’” Zechs said. “’You’re right. We're not giving up.’"

Duo met his eyes briefly in the mirror. "Fuck all of 'em."

"Yeah."

 

**

 

“I want to emphasise this is in the past tense, and I need you to listen without blowing your stack,” Duo said. His fingers twisted anxiously in his shirt tail. “Four years ago, Heero got sick. He was getting really aggressive and strange, even for him. I was still his partner then. We were out after a mission, you know what it’s like, coming down, trying to relax, and I’m looking at him realising he can’t walk straight.” He paused to sip at his tea, his eyes roving the length of the wall, everywhere but back to Zechs. “So I bully him until he goes to Medical. Anyway, it turned out he had a tumour wrapped around his optical nerve, if you can believe it. It was benign, but it was huge. Pressing on his brain, you know?”

“My god,” Zechs said, mostly to fill the silence Duo left. “I never knew.”

“We kept it pretty quiet. Gundam hero gets brain boo-boo? No-one would ever work with him again.” Duo moodily played with the lay of his cup and saucer, rubbing an edge of honey from his spoon. “Anyway. Anyway, they were trying to figure out if he’d been exposed to something, or if it was genetic predisposition, or what, and they thought it must have been because he was floating out in all that radiation in Deep Space in his Gundam and there was inadequate shielding. And if Heero had got sick from that, it followed probably we did too, so all the rest of us got tested. Quatre had all these cysts in his colon, and Trowa was the worst, he had to have a kidney taken out, and I’m sorry, that’s just not natural– and Wufei, he came out pretty well over all, we think because when the docs were working on Altron at the moon base they added in some new shielding–“

“And you?” Zechs interrupted. It occurred to him, as it obviously had to Duo, that if he had been sick once—ever—it went a ways toward explaining his susceptibility to whatever plagued him now. Zechs found himself tense with the wait. “What did your tests turn up?”

Duo’s jaw was so tight Zechs could see the clenched muscles standing out against his skin. “I was fine,” he said flatly.

It was obviously a lie. Obvious because Zechs had never seen Duo lie before, and it could be nothing else. It was the first and only time he had ever found anything about Duo ugly.

Duo lined his saucer with the edge of the table to some precise mental measurement. “They cleared me for this mission. So either I was healthy when I boarded or it was something the tests couldn’t identify.”

“Or they knew and they just didn’t tell you. Records can be falsified. Test results switched.”

“Why?” Duo demanded aggressively. “To what purpose? I sign a waiver every time I test new designs, we all do. It’s not like I could sue them or make a stink if I got injured or ill.”

“That waiver isn’t airtight. It assumes good faith by the Preventers. You’re too well-known; a story like this would be picked up by the press. By Preventers’ political critics. By the people who want Une out of office and a President who will restrict our budget.” Unless someone wanted them martyred, and visibly. There was a lot to gain out of poisoning Duo, if one added up all the likely benefactors. But that flew in the face of hustling them onto an out-bound ship, didn’t it? There was no benefit at all in hiding Duo and his illness from the public eye. Unless it was personal— There were still men who would do anything to revenge themselves on a Gundam Pilot. And Duo was the most recognisable of all the pilots, the only one who had ever been pictured Sphere-wide on television broadcast. Except Milliardo Peacecraft.

“We’re the most visible faces of the war,” he said thoughtfully. “And probably of Preventers, because of that. Maybe it’s a thought. Someone wanted us quietly out of the way.”

“Because we remind everyone of something that happened practically a decade ago?” Duo was sceptical. “It’s not like we’re heroes or the people’s darlings.”

“To the contrary. I’m the crazed madman who tried to plow a row in the earth with a laser, and you’re a terrorist rebel who was nearly executed on cable news. Haven’t you said you were always passed over for promotion? They were trying to keep you out of sight, Duo. Both of us. As long as we’re symbols, we’re controversial, and controversy threatens Preventers more than any armed force ever will.”

“The bacteriophages,” Duo said abruptly.

The new direction threw him. But even as he stuttered, he experienced a sudden shift of perspective, and he understood. More than half their cargo was comprised of medical supplies for the Mars colony. Including experimental bacteriophages for Sally Po.

Assume that Duo had been infected with something on mission for Preventers—assume he was offered the flight to Mars as a cover for getting him out of the public eye when he began to show symptoms. Could he assume that the bacteriophages were part of the plan? Send along experimental medicine on the off chance that Duo would survive long enough to be treated with them?

But then why Zechs? Une herself had asked him to take this mission. He’d thought at the time, immediately chiding himself for even suspecting it, that it was to get him out of the way of the rumours that some elements wanted him in her position. But what if she’d really chosen him because she felt him stable enough to carry on even if Duo were incapacitated? But—the Une he knew today might be a joyless woman, but she wasn’t the Une he’d known in the days of the war, capable of any darkness in her zealous service to their Treize. She wouldn’t send him or Duo on a suicide mission without giving them at least a hint of what they faced. They weren’t embroiled in a war any more, and that kind of action had no place in peace time. Why not tell them and let them take their chances, knowingly, willingly? Zechs wouldn’t have refused. But he would have told Duo. And if the intent had been to deceive Duo, as it must have been, then no, Une wouldn’t have risked that breach of confidence.

Duo vehemently denied that when he explained his reasoning. “Do you know how many people would have to be in on this? There’s the doctors, the flight command, the weapons design team—they’d have to warn someone on Mars—“

“And if this is something Preventers have developed, a biological weapon even, it would all be classified. They could do it.”

“And expose you to whatever I’ve got? Without telling you? I don’t believe that, Zechs.”

“You of all people honestly can’t grasp this? You’re a Gundam Pilot. And one of the first things you ever said to me was that I’d never make it in the colonies if I walked around with my head in the sand—or did you forget that?”

Duo had been all of seventeen when he’d said that. Zechs recalled it perfectly. It had been only three months since they’d crushed the Barton Rebellion, and Preventers had barely been able to catch a breath putting out the fires flamed by Mariemaia Khushrenada’s aborted revolution. Noin had been after him to join the infant Mars Terraforming Expedition. He’d been feeling cramped by all the attention of his reappearance, longing for the quiet he’d left behind when he’d decided to reveal that he had indeed survived the Battle of Libra. There had been Duo Maxwell, slouched against the office door in a battered leather jacket, a pert smirk on his mouth. He’d said the Mars Colony was doomed unless they got someone who thought to check where their funding was coming from. He’d been right. Zechs and Noin had arrived on the Red Planet just in time to lead a team against an illegal base secretly planted by a rebel offshoot. They’d found munitions stashed there from before Alliance had even declared martial law in Space.

“Not Preventers,” Duo said stubbornly.

“Why not? Because we’re all saints? Because you’re a Preventer?”

He’d incensed Duo. “Maybe you’re only looking for a conspiracy because you were OZ! Your lot spent so much time lying and covering up what you were really doing you forgot how to be like regular people!”

Zechs only barely leashed the angry retort that sprang to his lips. He ought to have known Duo would attack him if he perceived a threat. That was what Duo did. He confined himself to saying stiffly, "You’ve sufficiently made your point."

"That's how the people in power stay that way.” Duo barely paused to acknowledge his attempt. “It's right there in your book. Hide the monstrosities and what people don't know they can't rebel against. That was always how OZ operated, right from the start. You lied to us so we'd attack the Federation Doves and then you made it out like it was all our fault! And Une threatened to blow up colonies when it was just us who could hear, but then goes off as an ambassador and turns them against us five minutes later. And that demonspawn of Khushrenada's-- you know, at least she never lied to anyone. She wanted us all dead or under her thumb and she at least said it."

Duo had an unerring sense of where to stab. Zechs clenched his fists on the table, and forced himself to smooth them flat. He wasn’t in the mood to fight back; it wouldn’t do any good, and he knew it. In fact, he said as much. "I'm not going to fight with you about this."

"Because you can't,” Duo shot back. He was actually out of his seat, leaning over the table. “You can't defend a six-year-old evil genius with a God complex and you can't defend Treize Khushrenada either, which is why you left OZ, not that what you ended out doing was any better--"

"No. I can't defend any of that and I'm surprised you find you can defend your actions during the war. It was all just wanton destruction for the wrong reasons."

Duo reared back in surprise. "I don't think there's any comparison!" he said hotly. "It's not like we ran around murdering women and children, not like Alliance, and don't you dare claim to me that didn't happen, because I know. We fought back because it was fight or die, not because we wanted to take over anything or hurt anyone, not like you people!"

“You just pointed out that the Rebels have innocent blood on their hands. Are you that absolutely certain you were always in the right?”

He had long enough in the panting pause between their shouting to realise he’d started something that wouldn’t end well for either of them. Duo’s colour was bad and the stress of a fight couldn’t be healthy. But they’d gone into free-fall, and there was no coming back from it.

“I’m waiting,” Duo spat. “Can you offer me one single reasonable reason why I’m not entitled to hate all of them?”

“They were soldiers following orders,” Zechs told him immediately. “The same as I was, and the same as you were. The Rebels were no different except for the side you were fighting for--”

“You’re wrong—“

“Both sides killed! Both sides killed innocents.”

“We had our orders, yeah, but only in the beginning. Each of us had to find the—the moral awareness to choose to keep going on our own, and we did, alone, and that’s the difference between you and me, I’m not hiding behind another man’s ‘orders’, and I don’t think there should have been so much forgiveness for those who did!”

“So we should have all mutineed?” he demanded.

“You should suck it up and admit where you’ve got personal responsibility for what you did.”

“I live with what I did every day, Duo—“

“When you’re not blaming Treize Khushrenada. Oh, don’t you dare look at me like that. If you weren’t so desperate to believe you can find his shadow in your life still--"

The smack of his hand on Duo’s face shocked them both. Duo put space between them quickly. There was a red palmprint over his jaw.

"I was his prisoner,” Zechs said heavily. “Not his lover. Not his friend. Who'd go running back to that once freed?"

Duo touched his cheek. His chest heaved with each breath, but he spoke through clenched teeth. "You're the one obsessed with prisoners, Zek."

 

**

 

The hitting pissed him off the most, but it was hard to fault Zechs. With a mouth like he had, he’d earned his share of smacks and boxed ears.

He was looking at his favourite photograph in the book. It was two men from one of the prison camps. They had huge beards, like some of the weirdos who’d used to be in Romafeller. They weren’t smiling, and they didn’t look happy, wrapped up in these big grey wool coats and tall furry hats. He couldn’t have explained why he liked it, except that he did. He stroked the edge of the page, then sighed and opened it to his marker.

He rubbed his eyes, but it didn’t help. The longer he stared at the typefont, the less sense it made. He dug his thumbs into his sockets and released a deep breath. Maybe he was more worked up than he’d acknowledged. His jaw didn’t even hurt, though.

Zechs knocked at his portal. Duo quickly propped his hand to his eyes, pretending to be absorbed in the book.

“I know you saw me,” Zechs said. He set a mug on the desk at Duo’s elbow. "I brought your tea."

"I'm not thirsty."

"Please, let's not do this."

"I agree,” Duo said, and ostentatious turned a page. “You can leave."

"May I come in?"

Duo slammed the book shut and threw himself onto his bed. "Go head,” he sighed. “Say whatever you need to get off your chest that you didn’t scream at me earlier."

Zechs crossed his arms and stood looking down at him with an indecipherable expression. "I need to know,” he said, “that we can disagree and even fight and that our relationship can survive it."

That was not what he had expected to hear, and he wasn’t entirely sure it thrilled him. After Zechs had gone declaring his undying—or at least very presently at issue—love, and making a point of how Duo didn’t have to say anything, and Duo hadn’t, they hadn’t exactly been at their most comfortable. But Zechs stood there longer and longer and wasn’t going away. He was actually going to have to answer.

And when he actually had to think about what answer to give, he had to admit he couldn’t keep angry. So he scrunched his legs up and nodded at the end of the bed. Zechs took the silent invitation, and sat.

"Can we have a relationship if we both think the way we do?" Duo asked him quietly.

"I'd like to work towards one."

"I don't know,” he said honestly. “I can barely have a relationship with friends who agree with me completely."

Zechs reached for his hand, and Duo let him take it. “I’ve seen you with them. You make it work."

"Not in the bedroom. Not-- the way you mean."

"We don't have to define it that way. We don't have to define it at all. As long as we want it."

His fingers twitched, and he tried to hold them still so Zechs wouldn’t notice and think it meant anything. "I don't know." He dropped his eyes to a pulled thread in his duvet that ran clear across the surface. “It wasn't what I meant to have happen. And...” He heaved a deep exhale. “I'm not the kind of person who gets over things like this. We'll fight a few more times and I'll start to hate you for it."

Zechs squeezed his hand. "Maybe we'll work through it."

"Not even you sound very certain."

"I'm only certain of my intentions. I can't force what you're not willing to accept."

He had a moment of wishing Zechs just might. It would have cut through a lot of problems. But Zechs wasn’t Trowa, and that was turning out to be a pretty good thing. “Oh, well,” Duo said, and gave up being angry at all. He touched Zechs’ loose hair, then wrapped a hunk of it around his wrist, right over the bracelet he’d made of the bit he’d snipped. He used the leverage to pull Zechs down, and kissed him.

Zechs didn’t relax at all like Duo expected him to. “You don’t forgive me?”

“I was never angry with you.”

“I got a bruise says otherwise.”

“I shouldn’t have touched you.” Zechs curved a hand to his jaw, where he’d slapped Duo. “Give me a second chance.”

“At the kissing?” Duo wondered. “Or at life? Cards? You’ll have a second chance to make that tea, because I don’t think I’ll have a chance to drink it just now—“

“Shut up,” Zechs murmured, and kissed him hard. He wrapped an arm around Duo’s waist and pulled him close. “All’s forgiven then?”

“I am nice,” Duo reminded him. “Even you said so.”

“You’re nice, yes.”

Duo smiled. “Show me how nice you think I am.”

Zechs turned off the light, and Duo kicked down the duvet.

It was short. Zechs still seemed troubled, and if he was honest, Duo wasn’t concentrating at his best. He didn’t like to think Zechs might be right about his conspiracy theories. They settled for a sloppy exchange of blow jobs, and then Zechs shivered and pulled the duvet over them, clutching it close to their necks.

He ached, a little. More than a little, maybe. “I think I could use a shower,” he said.

“I think you smell good.” Zechs sniffed his hair to prove it, while Duo smiled. If Zechs could tease, maybe they really were going to be okay. The other man’s long fingers played against his skull, slow languorous strokes at the loose locks that didn’t quite stay in the braid ever. “You used to wear a fringe,” Zechs murmured, a few moments later.

“Not since I was twenty. It makes me look like a—“ He couldn’t remember the word suddenly. Then he couldn’t remember anything. “Bitty,” he said. It didn’t sound right.

“I don’t think it’s childish. You are young.” Zechs propped himself on an elbow, leaning over him. This close, in the dark cabin, Duo couldn’t see much of his face but a pale blur and lacy eyelashes, tiny exhales. The fingers brushed his face as Zechs pulled the strands into the old order, fanning them over his forehead. It was so long now they brushed the bottom of his lower lip, but Duo let him do it, laying so still that even his breath didn’t disturb whatever artistry Zechs thought he was involved in.

“Why do you wear it long?”

“Not for anything that matters, anymore.” Speaking had him eating his own hair, until Zechs moved it away. “The boy who asked me to keep it—he died so long ago I don’t even remember what he looks like, really.”

“Who was he?”

“Just a boy.” He was reluctant to share Solo, even now. What there was left to share. He admitted, “I think he was blond. I’m not sure. He looks a lot like Quatre, in my head.” He sat up slowly, giving Zechs time to trade him for the pillow. “Cold shower, maybe. Wake up a little.”

“Was he at the church?” Zechs asked.

Duo froze. “What?”

"We've talked about the church before."

"No we haven't." His heart had skipped beats, and re-started only reluctantly, as if expecting further shock. “We didn’t. I don’t talk about it. Why would you even bring it up?"

"You were talking about your childhood."

"Yeah, well, we're done with that. You don't talk about that. Not ever."

"Duo--"

"Because it's mine." All his life he’d only carried one thing that couldn’t be taken away from him. His memories were his, his and no-one else’s, and they weren’t something he was ever inclined to share, not ever. He propelled himself off the mattress and tried to sit calmly at the desk; but he was agitated now, his blood up, and he couldn’t sit still.

"Please come back to bed," Zechs murmured.

"No." He spotted his towel hanging on his wash line, and pulled it down. “I’m going to shower.” But he only made it to the door before the thing tugging at his tongue came spilling out. He whirled on Zechs. "You knew what you were doing when you brought it up. I can tell."

Zechs had sat up to watch him go. There was a mournful look on his face that didn’t make sense, didn’t compute to anything. He said, “There’s something I have to tell you.”

He was shaking. He was shaking, and he wrapped his arms around himself to stop it, but it wouldn’t stop, and he quaked head to toe like the frightened little boy he’d never been. "Some things are off limits,” he said hoarsely. “For always. Okay? I don't ask you to talk about Sanq or OZ or who the fuck knows, and you don't ever ask me about this."

Zechs stared at him in the dark. He was barely audible when he spoke. "Then maybe you should ask me about the Maxwell Church."

He went numb. Then hot. "What?"

Zechs shook his head.

"What do you know about it?" he demanded.

"I was there."

Crushing weight on his chest. He tried to deny it, but he couldn’t make his throat work.

"I was young,” Zechs said very quietly. “Just a cadet."

"No.” It was all he could manage, soundlessly. “You weren’t. You’re lying.”

"I was there. I'm sorry." Zechs rose, and Duo flinched away, forgetting the desk was directly behind him. Zechs reached for his arm. "I was a soldier. The beginning of my career. I was only fourteen, Duo, it was exactly as I told you, that I’d run away to L2. I turned myself in to the local base, and I got pulled in when the rebels seized the church. I didn’t understand what was happening, I had no choice, no chance to change it."

He avoided the touch of Zechs’ hand by ducking toward the door. He couldn’t breathe.

"It was-- the worst thing I could imagine."

"Worst thing you could imagine." That was his own voice, but it wasn’t his, guttural and hard like that. His head was pounding with every pulse.

"Yes. Duo, I swear, I’ve wanted to tell you a thousand times. I tried, that second day, the day after we slept together…"

"I'm going to be sick." He tried to find the door, but everything was spinning crazily. He flailed at the fingers that caught at his elbow, and stumbled to his trash bin just as his stomach rebelled wildly. He heaved an acid mouthful into the bin, then another.

Zechs had him by the arms. His head was swimming, and he fought on instinct alone, until the hands on his shoulders shook him, shook him until his head snapped back on his spine. “Duo. Duo! You have to let me explain.”

"I have nothing to say to you." He couldn’t free himself. Zechs shook him again.

"We're on this ship. Together. We're partners."

"You lied to me. Every minute from the beginning. We are not partners."

"You don't have to like it, but we are. Have you confessed every act you committed against innocents during the war?"

"Soldiers! I fought soldiers. Soldiers you trained to fire on women and children and churches!"

"No warrior gets through a war without killing innocents."

"Is that how you live with what you did? You repeat a lie until you think everyone shares your blame?" He was trembling so much he couldn’t support himself. Zechs caught him as he sagged and swung him onto the bed. “You knew it was me. You knew it was me.”

"I'm only-- do you think this is something I'm proud of?” Zechs held him by both cheeks, and Duo closed his eyes rather than look at him. “Do you think a day goes by that I don't blame myself for the things I've done? My crimes?"

"You should. You should."

"I have. Every damned day."

Even in the dark the room spun. “They were my family."

The hands on his face caressed, until he tried to pull away. “They're all someone's family."

"But they were mine. How could you never tell me, in all this time?"

"I've tried a dozen times, Duo. I was afraid. We both were." He pulled Duo to his chest, forced him flat against a rapid heartbeat. "I don't expect you to forgive me. But God, please, Duo, please try to understand."

It was as sharp as it had been the day it happened. He could smell the smoke, the greasy smoke, and hear the sirens, the shouting, the wailing. The bodies were etched on his eyelids, blackened husks in the burnt rubble. The trucks, the uniformed soldiers, hauling him off his feet as he screamed every curse he knew at them, then begged them to let him stay. Long hair the colour of honey clenched in his fist, and blue eyes, the same colour as the ocean sky he hadn’t seen yet, open and staring after him as they carried him away.

Blue eyes. He blinked, and so did Zechs, and that was when he noticed it. There was a thin line of red trailing from Zechs’ nose.

He finally found his voice. He said, "You're bleeding."

An expression of confusion turned the corners of Zechs’ mouth down. He wiped away the blood with the heel of his hand and stared at it. Then his eyes slipped closed. "Oh," he whispered.

His eyes stung. Duo viciously suppressed it. "You're ill."

“I'm not,” Zechs answered, with great dignity. He released Duo, and stepped back. “It's coincidental. Excuse me." He inclined his head, and left the cabin. Down the corridor, the accommodation light went on, and the sink ran water.

Duo stared about his cabin as if it were the first time he’d seen it. Had the walls always been bare plastic and steel? It was like a prison cell. A prison cell, and he was trapped here. Was going to die here, wasn’t he, and he’d killed Zechs, too, contaminating him with whatever was wrong with him. It was as good as a grave.

He trembled so badly he struggled with the seals on the vacuum suit, but he’d done it so many times it required no thought at all. The airlock opened when he keyed the pad, and though Zechs must have heard the noise, Duo was alone as he waited for the vents to suck the air out of the lock. When the cockpit door opened for him, he kicked off the deck plate and floated over the barrier into the absolute black of the zero-g. He found the captain’s chairs by memory, the very chairs he and Zechs had sat in five months ago for the launch, strapped down, exchanging no words that weren’t absolutely procedural.

“Computer,” he said, knowing his voice would carry through the oxygen mask. “Activate view screen on forward cam.”

It was brighter than the dark of the powerless control panels, but only barely. There were no stars in immediate view, only the glow of navigation brights on the outer frame of the ship. If he increased magnification, Zebra Tango Mid-point Station would be out there.

He floated in inertia, looking out at the black Space outside, alone with the only things that were his.

 

**

 

He didn’t even hear the seals, he was so absorbed in himself. He searched all over the living quarters before he noticed that one of the suits was missing from the locker by the airlock. Zechs did not follow him.

He was cleaning Duo’s trash bin when he found his hands were shaking. Reaction, he told himself. He’d carried that confession for so long, and when he’d decided after their fight that he had to make it to the one man who mattered, he’d only shifted his burden to Duo, not eased it from himself.

“Computer,” he said. “Record message to Trowa Barton.”

“Recording.”

"Maxwell continues to deteriorate,” he told the murky sink water. He unplugged the drain, and overturned the tin to dry on the counter. “This evening I displayed similar symptoms. Please advise."

Duo stayed in the cockpit for three cycles. Zechs visited him twice, once to bring him a canteen of water and packet of dry crackers, and once with the book. Both times Duo ignored his intrusion, and Zechs made no attempt to speak to him, though he privately wondered if Duo meant to spend the next two weeks there, until they docked at Zebra Tango. He told himself several times he was going to draw the line and take Duo out of there, bodily dragging him if he had to— but he never did.

In the end, he didn’t have to. The seals woke him during the night on the fourth cycle.

He had time to heat water for tea. Duo came into the kitchen dragging his oxygen mask and the book. He sat, and Zechs put the mug in front of him. Duo seemed weary, a little wasted by his extensive float in the dark, but centred.

“Hungry?” Zechs asked briefly, unsure he ought to risk any real conversation.

Duo sipped the tea, but grimaced at the offer of food. "My stomach hurts."

“Soup?"

"Tea's fine."

He made a plate of biscuits anyway, and set it at Duo’s elbow. Duo pushed one around with a pale finger, then put his hands together in his lap.

“They were Catholic,” he said. “I think it would be important to them for me to forgive you. So I do."

It was a grudging effort at best, but he was grateful for it. "I appreciate that."

"I want to know what it had to do with you wanting to sleep with me." Duo’s voice had a hard edge now. His gaze was steely.

"Nothing, Duo. They're unrelated."

"You came onto this ship knowing you wanted to fuck around. I just want you to explain to me how that works out in your head."

"What are you talking about?"

“Ti takAya valnUyashaya,” Duo said flatly. “Ti takAya Iskrennaya. Ti takAya ocharovAtel’naya.”

Zechs swallowed dryly. "I wasn't thinking about the Maxwell Church Massacre. It's not some kind of penance... or conquest. I’d give anything to have had no part in the Massacre, but I did. I should never have touched you. Not without confessing it first. I'm sorry."

Duo’s eyes flicked away on 'massacre'.

"I'll stay out of your way as much as I can. You don't have to run to the airlock. It's probably not the best for your-- illness."

"Our."

"Ours, yes."

Duo was not looking at him now. "I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault."

"Anyway."

"We have to work together, Duo."

“No, I don't think we do." Duo finished his tea and rose to put the mug in the sink. The teabag made a dull plop landing in the garbage.

"We're on this ship,” Zechs said. “We need to deal with each other."

"And I'm telling you that's less of an issue than you imagine." Duo shoved the book across the table at him. "I can't read anymore. So you're captain, and there's no reasons left for us to spend any time together."


	7. Seven

After Duo barricaded himself in his cabin, there wasn’t very much for Zechs to do but sit still and feel helpless.

He ought to have acted faster. He ought to have dragged Duo out of the cockpit and watched him, at the very least, or tried something to treat him. They’d both been lax on that, far too passive, too willing to believe it was something that could be overcome easily when Une gave them the right clue, when Barton finally came up with the right answer. That was the division that ruled their lives, in Preventers; command, field agent, medic. They were trained to leave the duties of each to their own, never imagining what might happen if one point on the triangle failed.

There was no way to redress his past failures, but he did what he could, now, grimly carving out a daily, hourly routine that he forced Duo to obey. He made Duo demonstrate that he couldn’t read, until Duo yelled with frustration and then went quiet and pale and drawn. When speech came next, Zechs tried to coax it out of him, word by word, trying to understand as Duo’s bright mind tossed out sound-alikes and related words without ever quite finding the right thought. He spoke his final word to tell Zechs to go; and then he didn’t speak again. He didn’t eat, and he barely drank enough water to survive, so Zechs unpacked their precious few intravenous drips and placed the catheter in Duo’s thin hand himself.

It was the hardest thing he had ever done, just watching as Duo faded out of life. In the blackest of his thoughts Zechs even began to be grateful when Duo stopped rising from his bed and only lay still, dull-eyed and unresponsive. At least Duo no longer knew what was happening to him. It was a horrible kind of premonition, watching Duo lose control of his body and finally even his mind, and to know that when it happened to him, one day very soon, there might not even be a witness.

They would be alone at the station, until, or if, Trowa Barton arrived. Barton might or might not have answers. He might or might not be too late. There were the bacteriophages in their cargo, and those might be the answer— if the answer was something that Zechs could manage alone, and before he became incapacitated himself, assuming the disease followed the same course in him that it had in Duo. Zechs had only the most rudimentary knowledge of medicine, the ability to carry out simple operations, field operations— stop-gaps until the real help could come. He’d been indifferent to the short briefing about the supplies they were carting to Mars, had barely glanced at the inventory. But even when he did have the better medical equipment on Zebra Tango to work with, there would be little he could do. Bacteriophages had to be designed to attack a specific disease. He didn’t know how to do that, or how to find out what Duo had, if the computer couldn’t identify it for him. It was no advantage at all.

So he filled the silent hours preparing for the worst. He made a comprehensive list of Duo’s symptoms and sent it to sources he trusted— to Relena and Heero Yuy in Sanq, to Barton’s last signal, to Noin. He wrote a detailed brief of their mission progress, sparing nothing, even their sexual relationship— even the confession he’d made that had driven Duo over the edge. Anything might be useful. It was mentally, emotionally exhausting, but he drove himself through the night cycles, determined to do it while Duo was quiet, while there was time to concentrate properly. The last thing he did was update his will with terse personal statements to the few people he called friends, and the one woman who had once been his family. He didn’t try to explain to them; he didn’t know if his messages would ever reach them, truly. It wasn’t the first time he’d ever made such preparations, but it was the first time he had felt a real uncertainty about the possibility of his death. The only person he truly worried about leaving behind now— would likely beat him to it.

He sat silent vigil with Duo for the entire cycle before Zebra Tango. Duo was silent, now, dull-eyed as he stared at nothing. They would have to transfer to the cockpit to dock, but Zechs had already decided he wouldn’t try to move Duo until it was time. They would complete that together, if Duo was lucid; he could do it alone, if not, but Duo would still have to be suited for safety, and that would not be easy or comfortable. He made Duo a final nutrient shake, spooning it slowly past his lips. When he dressed Duo that night, the grey stretchsuit hung off his skeletal frame, only a few shades darker than his waxy skin.

He carried Duo to the airlock, and left him propped against the wall as he raised the computer to full power for the first time in five months.

“Lights,” he commanded first. “Raise internal temperature to 25 Celsius. Computer,” he said then, “prepare for docking procedure.”

“Authorisation required from both agents on duty,” it answered.

Zechs had anticipated that. Duo’s weight was slight even before he brought him over the transition into zero-gravity. “Agent Maxwell is incapacitated,” he said. “I am in command of the mission now.”

“Authorisation level four required.”

Duo settled easily into his chair. His eyes drooped, and his shallow breaths turned deep as he dozed. Zechs strapped him down, and pressed a long kiss to his warm temple.

“’Let them eat cake’,” he intoned. “Prepare for docking procedure.”

“Acknowledged. Activating view screen and navigation comm.”

It didn’t really require two people, but everything about this only called to memory how he and Duo had instinctively divided the work between them, last time. Duo hadn’t looked at him then, either, not any more than necessary. But just as Zechs had decided internally that Duo, renowned pilot that he was, would probably want to navigate the launch, Duo had never raised his voice to supply any of the necessary command sequence, a part of the procedure Zechs was always loathe to leave to others, who couldn’t be counted on not to skip steps. They’d found the tandem without half knowing each other. As if they were meant to.

“Computer,” Zechs said. “Display--”

The perimetre alarms went off. Duo barely stirred, but Zechs jumped and his heart pounded. “Computer,” he barked. “Display!”

His mouth dropped open in shock. There was an entire fleet of Leos surrounding the Midway Station, and seven zooming through Space at Zechs’ small ship, spreading in a wide ‘vee’ to surround him.

“Evasive maneouvers!” He gripped the navigation in palms that sweated suddenly. “Computer, retreat to—“

“Incoming message.”

Their tiny transport ship was no match for even a single mobile suit, much less the firepower that swooped above, below, and behind faster than he could even turn the ship. They were trapped.

Duo slept obliviously, one hand floating in the air, palm up.

Zechs swallowed dryly. “Acknowledge message.”

It was visual. His view screen divided to halves, the bleak sight of the blockade to the left and the vaguely familiar face of a man in a militaristic uniform to the right.

“Agent,” the man said, and inclined his head politely. “We’ve been waiting for your arrival.”

Blonde hair, darker than Zechs’, and a solemn, narrow face with thick level brows. Oddly familiar. Zechs let none of his anxiety show on his own face. “I am Agent Merquise of the Preventers,” he snapped. “Identify yourself.”

“Horatio Ambrose Noventa,” the man replied. “Commander of this fleet. It is my duty to inform you that Preventers have been disbanded, and to instruct you to stand down your weapons.”

“Disbanded?” he repeated, disbelieving. Then the name sank in. “Noventa?”

“Yes, Agent.” For a moment, just a moment, something dark flickered in the courteous gaze that never left his eyes. “I believe you knew my uncle.”

God.

“Stand down your weapons, Agent. You are vastly outnumbered. We have no intention of firing at you, but provocation will not be ignored.”

There was no possibility of outrunning them. And no question of even attempting to fight them. They’d be blown out of the air.

“Agent Maxwell is in need of medical attention,” Noventa added. “Quarantine facilities have been prepared for him.”

That snapped him out of his hesitation. Duo would be just as visible to Noventa as Zechs was, a vulnerability that had never occurred to him— because he’d never imagined there would be a need to hide it. Cautiously, Zechs said, “You’re aware of our situation?”

Hell; they’d probably passed the ship, flying to get here before them. It was a five month journey in their little scow, but it could be accomplished in just one, in the best of shuttles. In mobile suits, even less, if you were willing to risk the pilots, if you could cart sufficient supplies—

Obviously they had been.

Preventers disbanded. His stomach churned.

“We have no intention of interfering with Agent Maxwell’s treatment,” Noventa was answering him. “You may proceed to docking when ready.” He inclined his head again, curtly, and his transmission ended abruptly. Zechs’ screen expanded to show the Leos banking wide and drifting back to a respectful distance.

He took Duo’s hand. It fit like a child’s in his, so thin now. But it gave him strength. “Hold on,” he whispered tenderly. “I will help you, Duo.

“Computer. Engage docking with station.”

“Docking engaged,” the computer agreed.

 

**

 

There were more surprises waiting. Trowa Barton and Sally Po met them at the airlock.

“We’re contagious,” Zechs shouted, a knee-jerk reaction to the sight of two un-suited humans only feet away him.

It was Sally, her long honey hair spilling over her shoulder with her quick shake, who stretched out a hand to him, gesturing him through the airlock. “We’re ready for you,” she called back. “Come on. Hand him out, we've got him."

He never even thought of handing Duo over. The transition between the dock and the normal-grav interior of Zebra Tango took far longer than on their little ship. Duo sagged in his arms. Zechs had tried to lift him, but dizziness forced him to set him back on his feet, as much as possible. He could feel wetness trickling from his nose to his upper lip, but there was no way to wipe it inside his helmet. He hugged Duo closer as the airlock door rolled open, and the chamber flooded with oxygen.

"I didn’t expect you to beat us here,” he told the doctors gruffly.

Barton said, "I told him I wasn’t ditching you."

Sally wielded a wheelchair. She bumped Zechs in the knee with it, and he reluctantly released Duo, easing him down to the seat. It was far too large for him, but she lifted his feet to the saddles, and Zechs helped her with his helmet. Wedged against his hip, it would keep him in the chair.

“Is he catatonic?” she demanded.

"No. Just-- He's been like this for the last few days." Sally took a small flashlight from her coat pocket and peered into Duo’s eyes, open now, with it. Zechs stripped his helmet as the airlock shut behind him. Barton knelt at Duo’s side, taking his pulse. "Please tell me,” Zechs said, “that you know what this is and how to treat it."

Barton released an impatient breath. "We're working on it.”

“Let’s get them inside,” Sally said. She stepped behind the handles of the chair before Zechs could, and set a brisk pace up the curving corridor.

He had been in Zebra Tango before, but not since the research quarters and medical bay had been added to the bare bunks and mining facilities that had once been the whole of the in-system ring of satellites. It was still empty, almost ghost-like, and the chilly metal walls echoed with their progress. Zechs pushed damp hair from his forehead. He was both overheated in his suit and cold from the clammy atmosphere of the station. His stomach was decidedly upset, now, protesting every step.

“You look rough too,” Barton observed sharply. “When did it start?"

Zechs lifted one shoulder, to block the sight of the shorter man. "Duo first." He knew he sounded cranky and difficult, but his nerves would not allow any false congeniality. "What's going on out there?"

Sally spoke over her shoulder as they met a cross-hall and turned to the right. "There was a coup on Earth."

The explained the unusual uniform on Horatio Noventa. The dozens of Leos. Zechs pressed his palm to his stomach, but the warmth didn’t penetrate the thick layers of his suit.

“The President is dead. The Vice President is likely on the run. So is Une. Preventers are officially disbanded."

"Officially?"

"Look," Barton interrupted. "We've got time for that later. Right now there are more immediate priorities."

Zechs couldn’t disagree with that.

The hospital bay was ready, as promised. There were two beds arranged together, a console of computers perched nearby. The screens of the computers were all lit, information on a slow scroll. Sally and Barton moved faster than Zechs, again, lifting Duo from the chair to one of the beds and stripping him quickly. Sally did glance back, long enough to say, "You, too."

It felt strange. Oppressive, almost, the new voices, the new human presence. He didn’t like how they cut him off from Duo, and knew they would be right to deny that they were even trying to. They were doctors, they were the doctors he’d been waiting for. Zechs tried to centre himself with a deep breath, and bent to remove his boots.

“There’s a gown there,” Sally told him. "Lay back and just drape it over your lap, Zechs."

He obeyed. Duo didn’t get even that modesty. They arranged him on the bed like a stringless puppet. Barton moved into his eyeline, then, bent over Duo on the bed. Sally startled him by appearing on his other side.

"Arms over your head," she said. She stuck a pillow behind his neck as he did so.

Barton was being entirely clinical and appropriate in his examination of Duo. Mostly. Duo's eyes were open, but he didn’t respond to his name, and his head didn’t turn to follow the progress of Barton’s touch on his bare arms and chest.

Zechs said, "He was already sick when we left."

"Yes," Sally agreed. "But he didn't give it to you. You were sick, too." Her fingers, icy against his skin, probed his armpits, palpating his lymph nodes.

"How?” he asked her. “We both tested fit before we left. How can you know that?"

"You were tested, yes. I've seen the file. Both of you showed normal." She brushed over his neck, and then moved quickly, professionally down his sternum. She pressed stiffly on his abdomen, expertly seeking his internal organs. "Any pain?"

"Pain, no.” She dug into his stomach, and he had to clench his teeth. “Nausea, yes."

"One to ten, one lowest?"

"Six."

She tapped his cheek. "Honesty helps us. Honesty will help Duo."

“Six, damn it.” He breathed carefully. “He had a seizure three days ago."

Barton looked up. “Seizure?"

"It began like all the other hallucinations, and ended in tremors. Then he passed out. I'd call that a seizure. Wouldn't you?"

“Lose the attitude, Merquise. We came here to help you."

"Duo’s notes said moodiness might be a symptom."

Sally’s thoughtful interruption embarrassed him. But he didn’t apologise.

Barton turned his back again just as Sally lifted the gown from Zechs’ lap. Zechs stared at the low dark ceiling as she reached over his groin to depress his thigh, following the big femoral artery. He went red-cheeked when her cold fingers casually tossed the gown further aside, leaving him bare to the air. She didn’t apologise, either.

"Swollen," she told Barton.

"Duo as well. How long has he been febrile?"

Zechs said, "Off and on for weeks. Usually when something else is wrong, too."

Sally had him sit up, and stopped him from reaching for the gown by tapping his knees with a rubber mallet. "Any dizziness when you stand?"

"Just in the last week. And not all the time.” He twisted to look over Barton’s shoulder. Duo looked dully at the undecorated wall. It wasn’t so different from the ship. Did he even realise he’d been moved? “How bad is he?" he asked the doctors.

"We'll know better if we can judge what the path of the disease is,” Sally said. “Which we can know better if you answer all my questions."

"I'm not hiding anything, damn it." Duo’s head moved. Zechs tried to catch his gaze. Then, warned by his body just in time, he pushed Sally out of his way as he left the bed and hurried to a waste can he’d spotted. He bent over it to vomit.

Barton’s voice, dry as ever, went on at his back. "Looks like stress exacerbates the symptoms."

Sally brought the gown. She draped it over his shoulders, relieving at least that humiliation. She offered a bottle of water.

"You need to stay hydrated, Zechs."

"I'll only throw up again. Believe me. I know the pattern.” His hand was shaking. He pressed it against his mouth, and found the small crusty line of blood from earlier. He’d forgotten it. And it was dim enough in the station that it had gone unnoticed. He wiped it away quickly. “Just give me a minute."

She rubbed his back, at that. Her hands finally felt warm on his shoulders, squeezing with just the right amount of pressure. It was the first touch from her that reminded him they were friends.

"Why aren't you masked?" he asked her hoarsely.

"You aren't contagious. Not yet." She crouched beside him, her hand lingering on his back. There was kindness in her eyes, now that he looked for it. "You were infected by direct contact with the source."

"How?” He seized on that. It had occurred him that he and Duo might have been exposed to the same thing, but Duo had sickened so quickly, and Zechs was just starting to. It hadn’t seemed possible. “We discussed it. I don't remember anything that--"

"Two months before you left for Mars, you participated in an experimental mobile suit manoeuvre. The upgraded Leos."

Yes.

"You had two targets. You were testing the suit's weapons' capabilities. You fired twice."

They were modelled on Tallgeese. He had been proud of that. They were modelled on the Tallgeese, the oldest, the original design. He hadn’t known Duo had tested it, too. They’d been in orbit over Japan. Duo hadn’t even come in from the colonies, yet. It was months ago. Almost— no. More than half a year.

"It’s a biological weapon,” Sally said. “You know how Alliance was with biologicals. Nothing was off limits. Treize gave it the axe when OZ was going through the old files. But nothing’s ever completely destroyed, I guess…”

"No, nothing was ever disposable if there was even a shred of potential left in it." He said it with much bitterness. It was, after all, Treize’s favourite policy. But once that shred was gone, Treize had no difficulty at all in ‘disposing’ of anything problematic. The Federation Doves had died the moment Treize was ready to move on Alliance. Septem had disappeared that same day. And when Zechs had rebelled just a little too much, Treize had ordered his suicide, a grand stageplay of pageantry, the lone Lightning Count against a hundred mobile dolls. He often wondered if Treize had even imagined he might survive. He’d at least been useful one final time.

“It’s a naturally occuring fungus found in the tropics,” Sally was saying. “Usually it infects insect populations, but it applies in principal to humans rather too neatly. If Duo hadn’t had the antibiotics, I think he’d be dead already. It at least slowed the spores down.”

Spores. It sounded like something out of one of Duo’s childish science fiction vids. He couldn’t even conjure an image of it. “This— fungus— it’s responsible for everything wrong with Duo? With me.” He lowered his voice, not entirely voluntarily. His throat felt closed and pricklish. “You think it’s too late, don’t you?”

Barton heard. “No,” he snapped at Zechs. “We fucking don’t. You’re--” Barton would have said more, but at that moment something happened that startled all of them. Duo’s hand rose from the pillow. It was clumsy, but his fingers brushed Barton’s face, and his eyes focussed. Zechs heard Barton’s shaky inhale from across the room.

“Hey, baby,” Barton whispered, with a tenderness Zechs would never have expected from the cynical young man. With gentle hands he smoothed back Duo’s lank hair, and kissed his forehead. “It’s me. I came, just like I promised.”

Zechs had never felt the kind of burning jealousy that filled him like a sudden thunderstorm. He wanted to rip Barton away, throw him to the floor. He wanted to crush Duo to his chest and hold him there until it was his cheek Duo touched, his face Duo remembered.

Sally’s eyebrows were raised when he realised he was glaring, and looked away. But she only said, "Can you come back to the bed? I'll move the can closer."

He’d let the gown slip. He hurriedly pulled it closed again over his nudity. “Yes. Thank you.” He let her take it to the wall-insert disposal to be cleaned by aromatic sprays, and gingerly climbed back to his bed. Duo’s head turned to watch, and Zechs tried not to acknowledge the ugly smirk it brought out in him, when Barton looked put out about it.

"Feeling better?" he asked Duo. He stretched out a hand. The distance between their beds was a little too great. Duo didn’t match his attempt. There was no recognition in his blank gaze.

There was, though, a little gleam of triumph in Barton’s, until he wiped it clear under Sally’s silent censure.

"He's just responding to the stimuli," she said mildly, to the charged air between the two of them. “I don’t think he’s actually aware of his surroundings. Nor should we try to interpret his responses yet.”

It was all well and good for her to say that. Zechs knew what he’d seen.

Sally dragged a small cabinet to Zechs’ bedside and placed the waste bin on top of it. It put her squarely between Zechs and Barton, and Zechs was not so self-involved that he mistook that for anything but deliberate. "We'll want tests from you both,” she announced. “Maybe you can help us with Duo? Help us keep him calm? He might object when we start sticking needles in him."

"I'll do whatever you ask, yes." Weariness slammed him. It was a struggle to keep his eyes level with hers.

He’d done it. He’d gotten Duo this far. He’d held himself together, held them both together until someone else could come and help. But if that had been what he wanted, why did he resent their new-found interference so much?

Sally began to tie up his gown. He was tired enough to let her, though it made him feel like a child, or an invalid. "I'd like that water now, please."

She handed it to him. "Still nauseated?"

"About a four, now."

"When we've done with the tests, we can give you something to alleviate it."

“I'm managing."

"If we alleviate the nausea you might be more aware of other ongoing symptoms. It's not just about being less uncomfortable."

That was fair, and he ought to have understood it immediately. Maybe she was right. Duo had been this snappish, in those early days before they’d known anything was wrong. Heavily, he submitted. "I'll do my best to cooperate.”

She nodded. “Trowa. Let’s get started.”

 

**

 

With so much new activity and information to think about, he didn’t remember to tell them about the cargo until Barton began to prep him for a heart monitor.

"Bacteriophages?" Barton repeated sharply. The small pad of sandpaper between his fingers pressed too hard to Zechs’ chest, and he winced at the sting. “You’re sure?”

"I didn't think it was anything more than research material until Duo made the connection."

Barton and Sally shared a significant look between them. Zechs, having already concluded what they were now discovering, did not interrupt them.

Barton released an impressive string of curses— he sounded rather a lot like Duo as he did. "They knew from the beginning!”

Sally grimaced. "Lady Une is one conniving bitch."

"I'll get access to that ship. I don’t care who I have to kill to get it.” Barton dropped the monitor in Zechs’ lap and grabbed Zechs’ discarded suit instead. He didn’t linger long enough to be called back, but neither of them tried, anyway.

“I should have tried to use them sooner,” Zechs ventured, when he and Sally were alone.

Not alone. But if Duo heard them, there was no sign.

"Ohh, no you don't." Sally retrieved the sandpaper and finished buffing his chest, then began to attach the sticky nodes. "You did everything you could. You're not a scientist."

"Those men out there. The coup on earth. It’s all tied in, isn’t it?" The monitor beeped softly as she turned it on. She slipped the little plastic pad into a cotton sheath. It fit neatly into a pocket of Zechs’ gown, rib-height, where he would barely notice it.

"There's time to talk later, Zechs. Why don't you help me with Duo? I want to take some blood and do an LP."

He slid barefoot to the floor. It was easier without Barton there, somehow. He rubbed his hands together to warm them before laying them on Duo, to lift the long silky braid out of the way. "Just tell me what you need me to do."

"Keep him calm, if the needles bother him. Talk to him. He knows your voice."

He doubted that, now. But he took a place at Duo’s head, out of Sally’s way. He traced the whorls of Duo’s ears, the knobs of his jaw. Sally took blood first, her eyes flitting up to Duo’s face as she slid the needle into the vein in his left elbow. If Duo felt it, it didn’t show.

“Talk to him,” she urged.

He couldn’t think of anything. Rather—everything he thought of required more privacy than they had. He couldn’t say love with Sally there; he couldn’t beg Duo to wake up, not without looking weak or insane. No more insane than he would look if he blathered about the weather…

“Ti takAya valnUyashaya,” Duo had said, so flatly. Throwing it back in his face. Why did you pick me, knowing what you knew?

He almost stumbled on the words. “Ti takAya valnUyashaya,” he murmured, and stroked Duo’s cheek, remembering it round and full, that first day, bent over the words as Zechs wrote them, already red with embarrassment-- anticipation. “Ti takAya Iskrennaya. Ti takAya ocharovAtel’naya.”

Duo’s lips moved. He was mouthing along. Zechs’ chest went tight.

Sally set a filled vacutainer tube aside and started another. "What's that?"

"I was teaching him Russian. It was a way to kill time." He wanted to kiss Duo, but she was watching. He confined himself to an especially soft touch, thumbs brushing over Duo’s eyebrows, to the tension points in the temples. "He-- Duo is a very apt pupil."

"I have no doubt." A third tube. "You should have just had him teach you to dance. This boy can shake ass like nothing you've ever seen."

"That would have been an impossible task.”

"Why's that?"

"You've never seen me dance."

She was grinning, when he looked up for her reaction. He offered a small smile, all he could manage. She filled a fourth tube, and removed the syringe. "I think the spores have created a condition like toxic-metabolic encephalopathy. It's a catch-all for infections and viruses, but the neurological symptoms match, mostly."

"Is it reversible?"

"Controllable,” she corrected. “Help me turn him— like that. I want to curl him, like a foetal position— there. Hold him like that. It depends on whether we're successful eliminating the source."

"Controllable isn’t good enough," Zechs said.

"The bacteriophages could be good news."

"If they're even the right ones. If Novena lets us access them. If--"

"Then we'll think of something. We're pretty crack doctors, Zechs. We save the universe every other day. No big deal."

"I'm sure you meant that to be funny.” His voice broke. “Or reassuring. It's been unimaginable watching this happen to him."

Sally sucked on her lower lip for a moment. She opened a new kit on the edge of Duo’s bed, a larger needle, and smaller tubes than the phlebotomy kit. LP—it finally registered for him. Lumbar puncture. It was just as well Duo didn’t seem to feel pains right now.

"Trowa mentioned you were sleeping together," Sally said suddenly, bluntly.

"If it’s not medically relevant, then it’s nobody's business but Duo's and mine."

"All right."

"I'd sacrifice quite a lot to insure his recovery."

"That's not how medicine works," she replied gently. "I’m ready here. Hold him." She set the syringe to Duo’s spine, and Zechs, survivor of dozens of battlefields, found he had to look away. It was different, somehow, knowing it was Duo.

He was mindlessly petting Duo’s hair, something he’d done so much lately he barely noticed it. He might not even have felt it, except that Duo was curled on his side, and Zechs was rubbing his neck, and happened to brush his fingers up under the thick braid.

“Sally,” he said tensely. "What is this? It wasn't there before. I don't know if it was even there yesterday."

“Just a second—“ She capped the little tube now full of pale liquid— Duo’s spinal fluids. She set it carefully in the kit, and removed the needle from Duo’s back. She extended her free hand, and Zechs guided it to the lump he’d found. Her face went pale and still.

"What is it?" He expected her to shake her head, to put him off again, so he overrode her before she even said the words. "Damn it, Po. Tell me."

She didn’t, not right away. She was as stubborn as any woman he’d ever met, including his own sister. She cleaned the kit with the same efficiency as before, and carefully propped Duo’s head on a pillow to keep him comfortable. Zechs, unable to stop fingering the lump under Duo’s hair, was finally convinced to sit by the realisation that her silence meant something truly horrible.

“Noventa out there gave us access to locked files,” she said finally. He watched her back as she strode to the console of computers and lab equipment arranged before the beds. She labelled Duo’s blood with a fine-point pen, and set the vacutainers in a plastic stand. “Une’s files, and even some of the President’s.”

"How long has all of this been percolating?” With her back turned to him and Barton out of the room, Zechs risked a quick kiss to Duo’s cheek, and then he followed Sally to the consoles. “The last I heard, Noventa was looking for a position on the Security Council."

"He's not the ringleader. He's got a cousin, from the mother's side. Ianto Cameron. This has all the old feel of Romafeller, all the inter-related families, the upper-class conspiracies, but it's not quite the same, something I can't put my finger on. It's almost as if…" She hesitated. Her braids brushed back and forth over her shoulders as she shook her head.

"Almost as if what?" But he suspected he knew what she meant. He was right.

"So many of us were unhappy with, oh, I don't know. Unhappy. Like the direction of things had just... changed. Not for the better. We all thought, maybe with a different President... maybe if Une could ever be convinced to step down... And now suddenly we have all that. Half of me honestly wonders why I'm resisting."

Except that she did know why. They both did. They’d already lived through, participated in, two hostile takeovers apiece. It wasn’t in their blood to sit on their hands, not when they had a personal stake, and the personal ability, to be sure that was done was right.

He said, "It's easy enough to convince yourself that they're all the same, and it wouldn't matter who was at the reins."

Her expression was dark. “Easier than I ever thought.”

"Does anyone know where Une is?"

"I don't know. When Trowa came to me about Duo’s messages, we didn’t exactly advertise where we were going. We stole the fastest ship on the planet to get out here and we were incommunicado almost the entire way. Noventa met us here— that was the first we heard of anything. And now that fleet out there blocks our transmissions-- well, monitors them. Noventa did let us request some upgrades and a Medi-Comm link with Alpha Base. I worry about them, on Mars. They're completely cut off, Zechs."

"Is a resistance force forming?" Then, because it did have to be asked, he said, "Which side is the evil one, Sally?”

She looked at him for a very long time, searching his face for something; he didn’t know what. Her lips pressed tightly together before she spoke again. "When I was younger and starting to realise Alliance wasn't the dream it was supposed to be... I always wondered how I'd know when it was time to leave. Treize wasn't above the biologicals, either."

"I know. I threatened to leave once over the issue."

"But we didn't go."

"There's no point in regrets now."

"I’d like to think Noventa's not sitting out there because he wants to use this weapon one day. But, if he ever does... We need to have a cure ready, or at least a vaccine. If we're lucky enough to come up with one."

"What is that lump, Sally? You know what it is."

She exhaled deeply. "When the fungus has infected an insect in the rainforest, the insect displays the same symptoms Duo did, over a shorter period of time, however. I think the antibiotics he took did slow it down. Just not enough. In the final stages of the infection, the insect seeks height— physical distance off the ground. It— dies. When it has, the fungus creates an outgrowth from under the exoskeleton. It’s the way the spores are released from the host into the air, where they can do the most damage.”

It was chilling. He found it difficult to breathe, for a moment. “It’s the final stage. This will kill him— and then it will kill all of us.”

“Zechs—“

“I'm putting him back on that ship and we're leaving."

“If you do that, he is dead, Zechs. And so are you."

“If I don't, everyone is. Isn't that what you just said?"

"God, I forgot how frustrating you are. He isn't dead yet. And if you don't mind overly, I'd like to try to save both your lives."

"And if you can't, you'll give up before it endangers the rest of you?" he pressed her.

"Did you even notice the fleet of suits out there? No-one is leaving here."

He gave her the look that had frozen thousands of cadets in their tracks. "Then they'll just have to blow us out of the sky."

But Sally was a seasoned soldier herself, and she was impervious. The glare she gave back had equal fire for his ice. "That's exactly what they've got planned. And if we’re all going to die then I'd prefer to go knowing I've at least tried everything to the last possible minute, so you can sit the fuck down and be grateful to me and to Trowa for what we're trying to do. You are not the only person in the Sphere who gives a damn about another human being!"

He restrained himself from retort only by massive effort. It left him drained. "Fine," he said finally, tersely. He inhaled long and slow through his nose, and tried not to notice his chest felt weak when he let it out again. "Thank you."

She nodded just as tensely. "We'll need to shave the area,” she said gruffly. “See if you can find a razor in the stores."

"May I get dressed again?"

"Are you chilled?"

"I will be, if I go wandering around dressed in this."

"For now. I'll want the same tests from you, once we've finished with Duo."


	8. Eight

They had opened a room in crew quarters to rob the cots and proper bedding, and for access to the en-suite. It was extremely basic, little more than a spout from the ceiling aimed over a drain in the bare metal cubicle, with a bucket-like toilet beside it. The little bath on the ship had been more accommodating-- and he had better memories of it.

It seemed years ago, ages ago, now, that day when they'd made love in the shower on the ship. A comparatively innocent time. The worry, the fear, hadn't become so real, then, and their relationship-- could still at least be called a cautious friendship, inside their sexual attraction. So much had happened since then.

The force of his own regrets was overwhelming. Regret that he'd waited so long to do anything about Duo's illness. Regret that one of the last coherent exchanges they'd had was his crime and Duo's hatred. Of course his hatred. His grief. The oldest, the worst wound, the reason they'd been on opposing sides of the war. He hadn't had the chance to make Duo see that it also made them the same. They were both witness to the destruction of their childhoods, their homes, their loved ones. They'd both found vengeance in war, in inflicting death and suffering on the same soldiers who had taken so much from them. And if Zechs hadn't been a part of Duo's pain, they could have shared it.

A hand reached around him for the knob. The water warmed considerably, spewing in uncertain spurts. Zechs turned to see who had interrupted him, hoping it was Barton and not Sally--

“Hey,” Duo said.

“You're better?” He found himself dry-mouthed, dizzy. He cupped the back of Duo's neck, gripped the silky braid. “I thought...”

“That I never would be again?” Duo grinned. “You're kind of pessimistic.”

Some part of him knew instantly what was wrong. Or perhaps it only seemed that way, after. Duo could not have been there. Duo wasn't there. But it had every texture, every taste of something real. When Duo touched him it felt real.

“Don't worry about me,” Duo said. He turned the water warmer still, until it began to sting their skin. “Barton'll take care of me good. Are you in the mood for sushi?”

“Sushi? I don't understand.” He slapped a hand to the wall. The metal was damp and heating up from the steam. He stared hard at the pattern of shadow on its grey surface, willing himself to wake up. To stop. “You're going back to Barton, aren't you?” he asked muzzily.

He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, Duo was gone. He was alone.

Suddenly he was freezing. He wrenched the knob to the far left, as hot as it would go, but then there was steam all around him, steam that smelled like gunsmoke. Gunsmoke. Burned metal and scorched concrete, like after a ground battle. It--

His neck. He fumbled for the back of his neck. That was where Duo's was, the spore blister. Did he have one? Was he going to--

It took only moments after that for the headache to strike. It came on as swiftly as the hallucination, as the chills, stabbing at his eyes and temples. He leaned on the wall for support, for the trace of coolness that vanished swiftly under his cheek. He could barely breathe around it, barely see. Barely stand. He sank into a crouch when he became afraid he couldn't stand under the assault.

“Merquise. Come on. Come out.”

Barton. He managed a dry-mouthed swallow. “Not a good time,” he croaked.

The door opened, cracking into his shins. “Merquise.” The toe of a sneaker landed in a puddle with a dull splat. Then, “You're fucked up. Come on. You can't sit there all night.” He wrapped a hand around Zechs' arm and pulled. “Don't fight me, damn it. I'm not in the mood for a combative patient.”

He was on his feet, unwillingly. Reeling. Barton was holding him up, and everywhere he was gripping blazed with agony, but none of that even approached the pain in his skull.

“Come on. Describe the symptoms.”

“I need a toilet.” He wasn't sure he actually managed to say it aloud. But then he was being forcibly bent over at the waist, and then he was choking on acidic bile. It seemed to go on forever, until finally he could breathe again. Water splashed his face, tilted past his lips. He spat it out again.

“On my fucking shoe. Violent nausea. Obviously. Headache too?”

“Let go of me,” he managed.

“And watch you fall flat on your ass? Funny as that would be, no.” Barton wrapped him in an unbearably scratchy towel. “When did this start?”

“Duo. Where is he.”

“Sleeping. Where you should probably be. Come on.”

“He was here. Five minutes ago. He was-- better.”

The pause was long enough for him to notice past the flurry of his pain. “He hasn't moved in twelve hours, Merquise.” They were walking. Stumbling. He landed on something soft-- a chair. The lights-- Barton turned off the lights. The relief was enough to bring tears to his eyes. “This is faster than we expected. Maybe... we don't have time to wait on our safe options right now. Damn it. I don't know.”

The prick of a needle in his bicep was agony, injecting fire into his veins. No, not fire-- ice. It spread like a flood through his arm and into his chest, and up into his head-- cooling--

He could see Barton, now. Fuzzy around the edges, but real, and visible. The pain subsided. It wasn't gone, but he could function. Zechs sucked in a deep breath.

“Better?”

“What did you give me?” He'd been grinding his teeth. His jaws ached as he stretched them. He was still cold. And nude. His clothes were in the bags sitting by the wall, but he couldn't face standing for them yet.

“I'm an actual doctor, you know. With credentials and everything. What do you care what I gave you?” Barton rose from his crouch at Zechs’ side. “You missed the discussion while you were in the bath. Noventa’s boarding later. He wants to talk to you personally.” He paused at the door. “If I were you, I'd stay away from reminding him how you assassinated his uncle.”

“Treize.”

“Died before he finished paying. I'd lay bets Noventa sees you as the next best target.” Barton stood staring down at him. “Was this really the first fit like this, or did you lie to us earlier? It’s important to know.”

“The first.” He couldn’t remember when Duo’s had been. Couldn’t piece together the timeline. “He had one. Not sure how many, he…”

“That was probably because of the antibiotics. You shouldn’t have any more, either, if the ‘phages do their work.”

If. Zechs heard that, and wondered at his lack of surprise. He supposed he’d never really believed they were the answer. At least it wasn’t a disappointment.

When he looked up, Barton had gone, and he was alone.

 

**

 

He retreated to his bed to ride out the rest of the headache, but he couldn’t sleep long. He occupied himself briefly with performing a nurse’s function for Duo, washing him with a bowl of warm water and a flannel, but he’d already done the same thing the evening before and it only underlined, depressingly, Duo’s fragility. His limbs were so light, his skin bruising under the least pressure.

Sally had brought him the files Noventa had provided them. He was slogging through them, document by document. They were unbelievably thorough. There was no way of knowing if such extensive paperwork was kept on all agents, but he had to doubt it. Still, it left him with the highly uncomfortable realisation that he’d been watched, and not by the enemy, but by his own colleagues and possibly even people he’d counted as friends.

The dossiers had all been classified to the highest security level, past the point where he could have accessed them even if he’d known to look. His personnel file was hardly material that deserved lock and key, but it was top of the pile. There was nothing in it beyond a basic employment history, a list of missions he had completed, cases to which he’d been party. Standard stuff. It was the rest of the dossier that contained practically the rest of his life. Some of it still bore stamps of origin from OZ and even Alliance. They had tracked him from birth to the fall of his parents’ kingdom, through his career in Specials, his defection to White Fang. They had his real identity. Copies, even originals, of the titles that made him a prince and a landowner, the wills left by his parents and Treize that he had never sought to execute. There were minute breakdowns of his psychological profile by doctors he’d never sat with; few of them were positive, but all of them were annotated extensively in a different hand than had written the evaluations, and that suggested internal review. He had certainly never been notified he was under review. Next were medical files from every visit he’d ever made to a doctor in the entire course of his thirty years. The results of his final pre-boarding physical—in the original showing red-lettered warnings of parasitic infection, and a mock-up that lied about everything. The switch of the two documents approved, of course, by none other than Preventers Command and Lady Une.

Zechs could easily understand the case for choosing himself as a test target. The dossier was proof that his political ambitions, or at least the ambitions that others had held for him, had been of long-standing concern to every established government of his lifetime. Even Sally had brought it up yesterday—there had been talk for years now of changes that needed to be made, realities that needed to be reassessed, and Une had been at the top of that list. Even people who supported her administration had been murmuring, quietly, that it was time for her to step down and let someone new at the helm. Zechs had been a frequent candidate for her replacement. But only in watercooler talk, only in rumour. He had hardly thought of it, himself. He had had command, once, and it was his intention to never seek it again. But he was not naïve. He hadn’t suppressed those rumours, either. Had never gone to Une to privately assure her she was safe from him. It might not have made a difference. It might just have accelerated her paranoia. He was too cynical of the corruption that came with power to feel much moral disappointment with the woman who had been his friend and commander, but he did feel, and understand, Duo’s deep sense of personal betrayal.

Duo had plenty of reason. His file was even more detailed than Zechs’. Zechs had never known the extent to which Duo, even more than the other Gundam pilots who worked within or ancillary to Preventers, had been active in shadow-missions. They hadn’t worked as a five-man unit since 198, but Duo was listed as a lone agent in fully three quarters of his cases. He was employed primarily as a pilot and a sharp shooter. He’d done nine target eliminations—assassinations, in plain speak, and well beyond the number Preventers had established as the firm limit any one agent should have to commit. There were transcripts of his debriefings, grimmer with time, angrier. Duo raised questions, and his frustration at the lack of answers was palpable, but so was his ongoing attempt to accept the situation because he was told to.

They had his interviews for officership, the recommendations he’d mentioned. His reviews were always glowing. He’d never had a single demerit, a single complaint, and according to all this extensive evidence in his dossier he’d never been pulled into office politics, either. There didn’t seem to be a reason that he, like Zechs, had been made a victim. Zechs read everything end to end, went back and did it again, and could only find a single document that seemed to relate; the same switched results of that final physical they’d taken the week before boarding. But Duo had been flown in specially from the colonies, Duo alone had been offered this out of dozens of possible, perhaps more readily obvious, agents, agitators, worrisome elements. So why?

He wanted answers. He wanted reasons. To have so much information between his two hands and to have none of it amount to why—

Did nothing but worsen his headache.

Eyestrain had produced a tightness in his temples that didn’t help the low rumbling of nausea he still felt. Barton’s shot had taken a considerable edge off the pain, but it was still there. Duo had slept through his own headaches, after the hallucinations. He remembered how worried he had been. And what a fool. Both of them. So content to wait, so convinced there was nothing to be done until help came to them.

Sally interrupted his thoughts gently, touching him on the ankle to announce her presence. “How’s the head?” she asked.

“In recovery.” He couldn’t summon a smile to match hers. “I know I was supposed to sleep.”

“In all my years as a doctor, I’ve seen about sixty percent of my medical advice go ignored, purposefully or otherwise.” She placed the file she held over the ones in his lap. “These are the results from our tests. I thought you’d like me to go over them with you, before Noventa comes. He’ll want to see them too.”

“Thank you.” Paranoia wanted to refuse Noventa access to such—personal information, useless though that was in the face of all that he’d just been reading. There was no room even for the possibility that Noventa hadn’t already memorised everything in their dossiers. Plenty of possibility there were dozens of copies in unknown hands. Or that what he held was censored already, carefully selected pieces to paint a picture.

He reined himself in with effort. Sally sat when he made room for her, her deft fingers moving from line to chart on the printouts.

“I feel confident calling this encephalopathy,” she said. “The blood tests and spinal fluids are, I think, pretty conclusive. We could go further with some imaging tests, but the equipment here is old and it’s not meant for serious diagnostics.”

“Encephalopathy.” He tried not to notice that he stumbled on the syllables. It was an unfamiliar word—there didn’t have to be any reason other than that. He kept his gaze on the charts with their mysterious contents. “You said that before. What is it?”

“It means a disease that alters brain function. Caused by the spore infection, of course. You were otherwise healthy before you were exposed.”

“So it’s in the brain.” He was an educated man. A man of science, not in the sense of being specially trained, but in the sense that he was neither religious nor superstitious. But it struck an uneasy chord in him, that realisation. It was somehow more insidious, more malevolent, to think of these—spores, these parasites, infecting not just his body but the seat of his very humanity. It chilled him to the core. It made him want to reach for Duo’s hand. It made him want to break something in half.

Sally squeezed his knee. “I know,” she said quietly.

He swallowed with some difficulty. “There’s something I don’t understand. There’s nothing in his files that shows Duo tested the same weapon I did.”

“I don’t think he did. Noventa claims he didn’t ever find evidence of it.”

“We talked about it. He would have told me if he remembered.”

“He may not have. I know you didn’t list memory loss as a symptom, but just because you didn’t notice it doesn’t mean it wasn’t happening. You didn’t know each other well enough to conduct a thorough examination.”

So the Duo he’d known had been slipping away before they’d ever boarded. “What else did I miss?”

“Zechs—“

“Please.”

Her lips were chapped, her slim oval face devoid of any make-up, her honey hair carelessly and efficiently braided back from her face. The wrinkled blue of her scrubs made faint cotton rustles when she shifted. But she was healthy.

“Progressive loss of memory and cognitive ability. Personality changes, which both of you saw and recorded. Difficulty concentrating, other neurological symptoms like that—the dementia and the seizures. Losing the ability to speak. Progressive loss of consciousness. Muscle atrophy. Zechs, I will say it again. This was inevitable and it wasn’t anything you could have fixed. You got him here. You got yourself here. We will treat you. We will do everything we know how to do.”

And he would have to be content with that, wouldn’t he? Any power he’d had over this situation, over their very lives, had been eliminated long before he’d known to even look for it. The guilt did no-one any good, least of all Duo, but it was as inevitable as his helplessness.

“All these changes,” he said. “Treatment will fix it all? Reverse it all?”

He knew the answer in the minute hesitation that followed. “Treating the infection will halt the progression,” she explained, muted at his visible disappointment. “It could—should—improve some of the symptoms. Some of the damage may be permanent. It’s still better than the alternative.”

Barton appeared at the privacy curtain, his hair wet and gleaming from a shower of his own. “Noventa’s at the airlock,” he said briefly, and left them again.

Sally stood. “Ready or not?”

Ready. Zechs was cautious enough to test himself upright, letting his feet find solid purchase on the ground, but then he tossed back his sheet and stood to his full height.

“I didn’t mean for you to get up. You should really try to stay low until the headache is gone.”

“Hand me my jacket, please.”

She reached for it automatically, pausing when she saw what it was. “Your uniform? You don’t think this might be a bad time to push his buttons?”

“I won’t meet him lying down,” Zechs told her flatly. He had dressed not in the loose cotton gown and trousers he’d worn since boarding Zebra Tango, but in his Preventers uniform, the starched lines still crisp on release from the vacuum bag. The residue of his sudden headache, an uneasy dribble of nausea in his gut, an aura of sensitivity to even the dim light and noise of the infirmary, lingered like a nasty virus. It was appropriate. But he was determined to meet the man as an equal, not a patient. “He may think he’s disbanded the Preventers,” he said, “but I received no such notice, and I don’t recognise his authority.”

She stared at him, obviously wondering, though thankfully not verbalising, whether his truculence was natural or symptomatic. But she didn’t stop him, and so he finished dressing himself, twitching every seam straight and squaring the knot of his tie beneath his chin. He hadn’t worn this uniform in five months, and he might never wear it again, Noventa or no Noventa, but he would wear it impeccably. There were some codes that were crystal clear, and honour would not be compromised just because he didn’t feel well.

He was just tying back his loose hair when booted footsteps on the metal tile announced the arrival of their conquering overlord. Barton pulled back the curtain from the corridor, and Noventa entered before him, ducking his head at the sight of the two Preventers awaiting him. Zechs did not return the courtesy; he stood rigid as a post, his hands clasped tight behind his back, his head level. There were no greetings, no formalities. There was silence, lingering as if it were too heavy to be moved, queasy and angry.

In person, Noventa looked even more like his martyred uncle. His beard was trimmed and neat, but still dark with youth. He had the same hawk-like nose and eyes with their heavy brows, a lean and handsome man who looked like the scion of tradition and genteel breeding. Looking at him, it occurred to Zechs, not without an attendant sense of irony, that though they looked nothing alike, they were hardly very different men.

Noventa was the one who broke the icy stand-off. “Agent Merquise,” he said flatly. "I was explaining to Doctor Barton that I have a medical officer in my company who is very interested in your progress. If you have a detailed summary, I will convey it to her."

"Her who?" Sally asked.

Barton and Sally both had come to stand by Duo’s bed, where Zechs himself had taken stance. They made a tight group of compatriots, clustered around the softly glowing screens with their incomprehensible data, and their fallen comrade, hidden behind their backs. Unconsciously or otherwise, they presented Noventa a united front. Zechs was not unaware of it, but knew it likely looked like the childish spite it was. Noventa and his armed fleet outside held all the power here, and it didn't need to be repeated. To his credit, if Zechs could call it that, Noventa at least made no move to counter them, not even in his posture or his proximity. He maintained a strict distance from them, an emissary and nothing more.

"Doctor Lena Matwari,” he informed them. “She is a specialist in epidemiology."

And, apparently, suspect in her political leanings. Barton complained immediately, and Sally, too, muttered out her scepticism. “She's a tenured think-tanker,” she explained to Zechs in an aside that was not quite quiet enough to miss its mark in the man watching their every shift. “She made a name on television giving analyses she wasn't qualified to deliver. Three different virus scares out of that woman.”

“You have to be kidding,” Barton overrode them. “You expect her to do what, exactly? Come up with the cure that we can't? She has no cred, and even if she did I still wouldn't let her within fifteen yards of Duo, because she hates colonials and she doesn't shy from sharing. She didn’t even board with you to see for herself. Why risk getting spored on by a Spacer when you can make judgments from on high without ever seeing the patient?”

Even from Barton, that vitriol surprised him. So did the heat furiously suppressed in Barton’s flat stare. It was the first thing that warmed him to the young man.

“You can think of no reason to have your finds verified by an outside authority?” Noventa rebuked him.

“Sure. Bring one and we'll get started.”

“Agent, your ire is understandable, but it will not help matters.”

“Trowa,” Sally said, at the same time. “Please.”

Zechs was abruptly exhausted. It was mental, emotional. The sniping wasn't going to improve anything.

Trowa broke in again, a little too sharply, but sharply on point. “It would be a shitty biological weapon. It took seven months to progress to this point. It's curable.”

Of course they'd bring a scientist who could study that, replicate it. But the mind couldn't even find it scandalous, even as his stomach turned over.

Noventa evidenced no guilt, but innocence would have been ludicrous in a man savvy enough to incite and lead a coup. “Then you've perfected the bacteriophages?” the man asked them. “That's good news.”

The two doctors glanced at each other. Sally was the one who answered. “I believe we're close,” she said. “We're nearly to the point of administering treatment.”

“Nearly?” Noventa seemed surprised. Perhaps it was genuine. Zechs knew nothing material about the man except that he was the nephew of a greater man. A man who, not unlike the Peacecrafts, had been sacrificed to begin a war. It surprised him how uncomfortable he found that comparison. He had long resented Treize's manipulations, though he had loved the man who had been a friend once, who had kept his secrets for two decades, and arranged for him to find the vengeance he needed for his family. Noventa might not be much different. He had spoken passionately about the war, not against it, as Zechs had expected, but in favour of it, or at least in favour of the results. The age of influence and money had corroded the democratic fabric of the Earth-Sphere, he had said famously, and in a strange turn of fate we have a military dictator to thank for bringing that corruption to its knees. No-one who spoke that honestly had time for artifice when all the cards were in his hand. Zechs began to feel easier about the man. There would be time for suspicion later, at any rate, once this ordeal was over, and he would have to focus on the coup. On fighting. On winning.

It was nightmarish, but at least it was far away. He didn't think he could deal with Duo and with a war at the same time.

Noventa, who possibly wasn't getting much more sleep than any of them, called an end to the provocation, anyway. "Would it be possible to see Agent Maxwell?" he said. There was just enough tone to create a question at the end of it, but he was not truly asking, and, as Sally had said, there was no reason or way to bar him.

Sally had Barton by the wrist now. She answered quietly. "Agent Maxwell will not be able to respond to you, General."

“I understand. I won't disturb him long."

Zechs had expected it to go that way. But Barton and Sally didn’t seem to expect what he did next, which was gesture for them to leave. Sally balked, which was nothing to the glare that promised death or worse he got from Barton. But he was firm, and they both obeyed.

Noventa observed their leave without expression. Only when the curtain fell again did he drop his eyes to Duo’s bed. He looked, for long enough that Zechs had to fight his own rebellious instinct. Then abruptly Noventa made a show of turning away, to look at the monitors. “Yet you seem well yourself,” he said, with a quietness of voice that hadn't been there before. Well that he should feel a little awe. A little shock. “I did not expect his condition to be so poor.”

“We don’t know when he was infected.” Zechs took a wide arc, ending out at Duo's side where he could better watch Noventa's face. “Do you?”

“Everything I know I have provided to you.” Noventa subsided into a thoughtful silence. Then, “Whatever you did must have been particularly evil.”

“Go to hell.”

Noventa turned fierce eyes up to him. He said nothing.

“To suggest that either of us have personally earned what's been done to us is heinous enough. Whatever your anger with me-- however justified--” Zechs hesitated, old words coming back to him, Duo's words. The moral awareness to choose. The courage not to hide behind another man's orders.

“However justified,” he repeated softly, with difficulty. “But those sins are a decade old, now, and both of us have tried to live virtuous and honourable lives. Whatever you believe of us. If there was debt owed, it didn't warrant this.”

“No.” Noventa breathed out through his nose. Haltingly, he added, "You shouldn't worry that I have nefarious plans for him, or for yourselves. You are victims of your own government. You will have the opportunity to seek justice."

Zechs spoke bluntly. "You're a soldier. You understand, as we do, that duty and sacrifice are part of the bargain we entered into when we chose that path. I am curious why Maxwell and I were chosen as the guinea pigs. But the reasons why won't change that we were, and you've already taken care of the possibility of justice. You've overturned the government. You are the government."

For now.

A grimly sly understanding was there in Noventa's face. Noventa was only older than him by ten years, perhaps, but he seemed older even than that, in his stodgy straight-backed rigidity. He answered, “The nature of the soldier is in expendability. It is the responsibility of leaders, whether elected by an educated populace or brought to the moment by fate and inborn ability and ambition, to be worthy of lives given willingly.”

“Your uncle wrote that,” he guessed. “He was a fine speaker.”

“He was a great man. He will have cause to be proud of his legacy, now.”

“Another war.”

“There is no war. There will be no war. I will have no victims.”

“Fine intentions. But you're here, not on Earth. You're second in command, aren't you? Third, perhaps, by the time you get back there. Fourth. Who else is dancing around your cousin by now? Who knows what will have been done by the time you get back.”

Noventa's eyes were narrowed ever so slightly. He smoothed his beard with a rough stroke of his thumb. "I have my personal aide searching papers regarding this case. I do intend to uncover as much evidence as possible. We have thousands of memoranda alone."

"And will this information be made public?"

"Crimes that go silent are repeated. What has been done to you was done to others before. I do not intend for it to be done again. Is he aware of his surroundings?"

They were back to Duo. Zechs dropped his gaze to Duo's face. Awake, his head tilted as if he listened to them. But his eyes were unfocussed and his breathing was slow and regular, the involuntary function of a body deprived of will. "Only vaguely, I suspect." He let his palm rest against Duo's hair. There was nothing to lose in revealing their relationship. He did appreciate the lack of reaction-- though perhaps Noventa, who was so eminently informed, had already known. Zechs rather hoped not. There was enough to be legitimately paranoid about, without inviting omnipotence in potential enemies.

He opted for the most candid of responses, then; there was nothing to lose. “I noticed a distinct sun-downing prior to our arrival here. Po and Barton say the-- his—our brain and body chemistry have been affected. This seems to be the final stage, before…”

“Death,” Noventa murmured, almost as if to himself, but Zechs heard him. He tried to ease the stiffness from his spine. It was a fact, and he had faced it as one, before a stranger said it so baldly. Duo's head tilted toward the source of conversation, and Zechs shifted to allow him to see. He wrapped his arm about Duo's thin shoulders to support him in his sagging posture. “And after death, the spread of infection to others,” Noventa continued. He looked at Duo with curiosity, but with impartiality, too. He could afford it.

"I imagine I'll soon find myself in similar straits."

“That must be terrifying."

"It's not a pleasant prospect." Duo was sensible to touch, still. He turned his head into Zechs' shoulder. Zechs stroked his neck gently. Unwanted, his fingers sought for that blister in the back of his skull. The back of his own itched. "He doesn't deserve this."

The reaction he wondered for finally came. "I know so little about him,” Noventa said, with discernible emotion, with a real expression at last, meeting his look, meeting his candor. “His name is never much out of the news. The face of Preventers. The face of the Gundam Pilots. It's a well-known face, even these days. We've uncovered a great amount of encrypted information in his file. And yours."

No surprise. Not now. "I'm sure enough to build a case that our fate was approved by a military court,” Zechs guessed. “For whatever supposed misdeeds."

"You did have allies who argued for you. One of whom alerted us, in time to use your case against the government."

“That's how you came here so quickly.”

“We came because we were asked.”

That was cryptic. Zechs would have pursued it, but Duo sighed, and he forgot, in his haste to pet him reassuringly, to soothe whatever unknown ache.

"You have my word that this weapons testing ends with you and Maxwell. Regardless of the outcome."

He nodded through the tightness in his throat. “Was it-- necessary, to disband the Preventers?"

"You tell me. When was the last time you were sent on a mission for the benefit of the people you supposedly protect? Did the Preventers protect you? This young man?"

He couldn't answer that. The words were lacking, and the fortitude. "There have always been abuses. It's the nature of any military structure."

"It is the nature because the parent has never tried to correct it."

“And you will?"

"My family have always been dedicated to the best principles of military life. We ourselves have been victims. I have a greater desire than you seem to think to see that stamped out."

"I knew your parents. And your uncle. I don't know you. I don't know Ianto Cameron. I hope you do." Duo's eyes closed and stayed closed. “What do you expect of us? Of Maxwell and I?"

"Expect, nothing."

"Hope for?"

"We can leave my hopes until you have succeeded in finding a cure."

He really would have liked to know what strings were attached, but it wasn't the time. Sometimes you did have to take the out-thrust hand, knowing the dagger would follow. "I expect you to keep the way clear for us,” he managed. “Regardless of what path our treatment takes.” That left room for Barton's wild plans. Not the time to think of that, either. Not the time to think about very much at all, really. They were battling inevitability.

"I'll leave you now." Noventa stepped away. Zechs let him, knowing the others would walk him back to his ship at dock. But then Noventa paused, and added, “We're both men of the moment, in a way. Imbued with the importance of the times. Except that your time is waning, at last, and mine is rising.”

A cruel truth, that. But still a truth.

He stroked Duo's cheek, and it was no effort at all then not to think.

 

**

 

He couldn’t sleep. He ached, and he itched—he didn’t know if that was attributable to the ancient sheets, or to the dregs of Barton’s shot working through him. He lay with his eyes closed for what felt like hours, trying to drift off, and constantly finding himself instead thinking of all the things he could do nothing to control. Finally he convinced himself to sit up and make another attempt to dredge something from Noventa’s files.

And thus discovered Barton standing over Duo’s bed.

Gowned. Masked. Gloved. He had Duo on his stomach, and he was probing at the spore blister on Duo’s neck.

Some instinct in Zechs knew exactly what that meant, jumping straight to the frightening conclusion. He swung to his feet, ignoring a momentary wave of lightheadedness. Barton reared back in surprise, and that gave Zechs just enough reach to shove a tray of scalpels and gauze to the floor. They hit with a horrible clatter.

“Damn it,” Barton hissed at him. “Keep it down!”

"What do you think you're doing?"

“Trowa?” It was Sally, her voice drifting in from the corridor where she and Barton slept. “Something wrong?”

“Nothing,” he called back quickly. “Dropped a tray. Go back to sleep.”

“You were going to cut him,” Zechs accused.

“I was considering it. Keep your voice down. She’s sleeping.” Barton crouched to gather his instruments. “I don’t… Know if I have the guts.” His voice went dry and papery. “We don't really know anything, do we? And time's running out."

Duo seemed to be asleep. Zechs stroked his cheek with the back of his finger, and his eyelashes fluttered. When he brushed the blister, it seemed harder than the day before, and bigger. Almost the size of his thumb pad.

"Would I have something like that yet?"

Barton looked up at him from the floor. "I don't know. Maybe. It would be small, if you did. His case is a lot more advanced."

"If I did, would the risk be lower-- examining it?"

“You have to be the fucking hero.” Barton shoved the tray onto a table. “This isn’t a routine biopsy. The spores aren’t just designed to kill the host, they’re designed to replicate themselves, and that means an escape avenue. That’s what that thing is. At some point it will burst, and when it does anyone in inhaling distance will be infected. Think dirty bombs, and blast radius. And then we’ve got four infections instead of just two, and that assumes that Noventa doesn’t fry us out of Space when he finds out the entire station is a hot zone.”

The sensible side of him knew he ought to listen. But the sensible side was as weary as the rest of him, and it was hard to obey.

He aimed at a compromise. Barton wanted one, and he wanted one. It was like taking the long route to avoid traffic—it didn’t save much time, but at least there was the satisfaction of movement.

"Just look for it,” he said. “It doesn’t matter if it was my idea or yours. Just at least look."

Barton’s slim gloved hands bent his head until his chin touched his chest, and roughly pulled his hair over his shoulder. Zechs tried not to think about other hands in his hair, not to look at the braided bracelet Duo still wore around his bony wrist. He felt pressure at the base of his skull, careful trail down the vertebrae of his neck, and then a long pause.

“It’s there,” he guessed. He felt—a numb kind of—lack of surprise.

Barton stepped back sharply. "You have one."

"Can you sample it more safely?"

"No way to know."

The sensible side of him wasn’t silent yet. No way to know meant it was just as risky with him as it was with Duo, precisely because there was no predicting what would happen. He knew what Sally would say. Much as he would have liked to say he knew what Duo would want, though, he didn’t. One more thing they hadn’t talked about until it was too late.

“Will the risk be outweighed by the benefit?”

Barton took him by the sleeve of his shirt and dragged him out the infirmary past Sally, asleep on her cot, and almost as far as the crew quarters at the far end of the corridor. "We don't really know anything, Merquise,” he said again. “I don't know if even touching that thing would kill him. Or you. The only way we could be absolutely sure we’ve killed the parasite it is to irradiate the host. And with the equipment we have here, if you didn't die from radiation sickness, leukemia a few years down the road would be nearly inevitable. Are you willing to make that decision? For both of you?"

He didn’t like Barton’s contentious tone, and he had a retort ready on his lips when a key word in that speech registered with him. “There’s equipment here?”

Barton’s shoulders went straight in his dismay. “Yes,” he said shortly.

“Where? Why haven’t you used it? What do you mean—“

“I mean this station used to be a Deep Space mining and processing plant,” Barton snapped. “There's a hydrogen grid that's supported by a nuclear reactor. But it hasn't been operational since before they built the damn colonies, and even if it was--”

“It wouldn't be safe.”

"We agreed to try the biophages."

"Then why haven't we begun?"

“You never took a science class in OZ? Treatment doesn't arrive on a golden platter ready to go. We have to test it.”

“If you really believed that you wouldn't be waiting until Sally was asleep to put a knife to Duo's body.” Zechs drew a deep breath. "Start the treatment. On both of us. Or choose which."

Barton's eyes were wide. It was dark in the corridor, and his pupils were distended to take advantage of every sliver of light. It made him look a little mad, though. Zechs hadn't seen that look since-- Antarctica, in another lifetime. But it had been Heero Yuy, then, sullen and fifteen and strangely invulnerable, even as Zechs had anticipated a duel to the death. Between equals. Between two driven, focussed, dogged warriors who did not give up, ever.

And neither he nor Barton had been in love, then. Neither he nor Barton nor even Yuy had been fighting for someone else's life. There had been no fear, only anticipation.

“I'm tired of waiting,” Barton said, breathed, almost inaudible. He turned on his heel, silent but for the whisper of his cotton scrubs. “I can implant it. Sally won't see until it's too late. Give it time to see.” He reached their turn, the curtain hanging before his head turned, not quite fully back to Zechs, but enough to acknowledge him there. He said, “You probably won't want to watch.”

He didn't. He wanted, instinctively, to be there for Duo, through anything that qualified as an-- operation, as he supposed this would, implanting the biophages. Secretly. As secretly as they'd been infected.

Barton didn't wait for his answer. He was through the curtain, the squeak of his rubber soles suddenly absent. The mission silence in enemy territory. A rescue conducted in the dark.

Zechs was tense. His muscles were quivering with being clenched, and the headache was on its way back. He was flying into battle, and his body knew it. But even so, he could not honestly say that he expected victory. It didn't feel right. The body knew all kinds of things, before the mind.

He turned, too. In the opposite direction.

There were plates on the wall for direction, level name, section number. It wasn't much help without a map, but it wasn't the first time he'd had to navigate without a key. Harder, admittedly, without stars or trees or any landmarks to differentiate one sharp corner from the next, but satellites were built on grids just like every other planned military facility. Eventually, he would find what he was looking for.

He did have to double back several times and climb down a lift shaft after it stuck between floors. His internal clock called it nearly an hour, if not a little more. Barton might be wondering where he'd gone. He might be still working on the implant. Sally might have caught him, and it would be in vain. Even if she hadn't waked and found them out, though, she would eventually. And the phages might work, but they might not, and there was no telling, yet.

He found the reactor core.

Zebra Tango had started life as a mining hub. He did remember that, now that Barton had revived the forgotten fact. Long before Space had been colonised there had been asteroid mining, dozens of remote facilities laboriously built by the same robots that would staff them after. No humans on board, not then; science hadn't yet found ways to deal with the radiation issues, with the long and lonely travel times. And certainly they hadn't anticipated sending two homosexuals together. They hadn't thought of that even six months ago, when they'd put he and Duo on the same mission. Maybe they hadn't imagined it was possible. Maybe they hadn't imagined that sexual attraction could lead to a relationship. To love. Maybe they'd thought that even if he and Maxwell solved that little problem by falling into bed together, it wouldn't be a strong enough bond to make him fight to save Duo's life.

It was a room, distinguished from the rooms surrounding by the extra-thick doors and warning signs. Left by the robots to warn themselves? Posted by the humans who had come generations after, when Space was no longer the frontier but merely the next step. There was a key pad lock, no doubt set to a password that had gone to the grave with persons unknown. There were monitors, an entire bank of monitors, the screens blank, the controls still. No dust, not here. The live link to Earth and the satellites that had supported it were long gone. It was as good as useless. Inoperative. No “On” switch, waiting to be flipped.

Besides, what good could it do? Uncontrolled radiation was deadly. There was no question. They would be poisoned by it, as effectively as they'd been poisoned already, but radiation would be an awful death, a painful and slow death. Even if it killed the spore infection, they wouldn't survive the treatment.

Unless. Unless, by some insane miracle...

Barton would never do it. He loved Duo and wouldn't risk him, not for that, not if he couldn't bring himself to try biopsying that blister. Too many doubts and no-one to validate a decision like that. Sally would never agree. She was probably right. Under normal-- but these weren't normal circumstances. There was nothing normal about this. There would be no normal ending waiting for them, no success with normal measures. They needed to reach for the abnormal, the unthinkable. The last resorts.

He fell asleep staring at the black screens, and didn't dream.


	9. Nine

Sally was the one who set off the alarm. Duo was missing.

They split off to search, each with a hand-torch and a quickly assembled belt-pack of emergency medical supplies. Barton and Sally both went deep into the station, and Zechs did as they did, at first. But within minutes he started to question his instinct. Where would Duo even have the strength to go? The station was a maze, and in his state Duo would be easily confused. Even if he'd wandered, he would never have made it far. Uneasily, Zechs abandoned his path up the corridors, and turned back to the clinic. He stopped there long enough to stare longingly at the bed Duo was supposed to be laying on, sheet still rumpled from the weight of his body.

The airlock was close, though.

It was a good guess. Zechs slowed his steps when he saw Duo there. Standing, unbelievably, though the claw-like hold he had in the curved titanium cross-bars on the lock suggested the desperate strength it required. Zechs steeled himself, and crossed the distance between them. Motion-sensitive lights cast brief golden circles on the corridor, going out as he passed out of range. The one over the airlock flickered in and out, as if Duo were only a ghost, too insubstantial to assure the light sensor.

“Duo,” he said softly. He reached for Duo's shoulder, touching with just the tips of his fingers. Duo barely reacted. Zechs squeezed his shoulder carefully. “Duo, come back to the clinic.”

Duo was shivering; the thin cotton of his gown was no protection from the cold of space that seeped through the station. His lank hair straggled about his shoulders, a lock of it caught at the corner of his mouth. Zechs freed it gently, gathering the loose strands back into the braid.

“Come back with me,” he repeated. “It will be all right.” He tugged Duo's fingers from their frantic grip on the crossbar. “I'll help you.”

“It's got to be a phase of the disease,” Sally said later. “He was clearly unaware of his surroundings.” She took a syringe from their supplies and prepped three vaccutainer tubes. “I'll draw some blood for tests. Maybe we can pinpoint the change. A hormonal increase, maybe.”

Zechs exchanged a concerned glance with Barton. So far Sally had not noticed the bacteriophage implant Barton had slipped into Duo during Sally's last sleeping shift, but that would all end if she had reason to examine Duo closely. The other doctor smoothly interrupted her attempt to sit at Duo's bedside, holding a cautionary hand in the space between them. “I'm not sure he can handle the bloodloss,” he said.

That seemed to work. Sally chewed her thumbnail a moment.

“We'll keep him on fluids,” Barton said. “And we'll watch him in shifts. We know the ultimate path of the disease, Sally. Let's hope we never have to have more detail than this.”

“Can't argue with that optimism.” She rolled her shoulders tiredly. “All right, I guess I don't see that it will impact the development of the 'phages. Back to work it is, then.” She rose from her stool and walked back toward the computer consoles. A quick tap of her fingers on the keyboard lit the screens, and she settled in her chair with a slump.

The bacteriophage implant left a small red scar no thicker than the edge of a fingernail, and a little bump no longer than a knuckle. Zechs rubbed the inside of Duo's elbow where the implant nestled, wondering and worrying if it was doing its work well. Had Duo's sudden wanderings been part of it? Was it a sign he was getting better, that he was capable of getting up at all?

“Stop touching it,” Barton muttered at him. “Sally will notice.”

Zechs forced his hands into his lap. “When is it effective?”

“It can take up to forty-eight hours.” Barton lifted a fresh banana bag of IV fluids from a cooler and hung it from the stand over Duo's bed. “And that assumes it works at all.”

That was not comforting. “He walked on his own.”

“Sally showed you the research. The host goes looking for a place to blow up where it can infect the greatest area.” Barton touched Duo's wrist for his pulse, and then tenderly curled his fingers around Duo's hand. Zechs looked away. “It's not a good sign.”

“But the 'phages will work. Soon.”

“Maybe. I don't know.”

“Then when do we know? When do we-- make a new decision.”

“We should be making that decision now.” Barton leant toward him under the guise of straightening Duo's IV lines. Duo's head rolled to follow his progress, but then his eyes closed and stayed closed. “I'd like to remind you of the reactor on station.”

“You said it was a slim possibility it could even work.”

Sally glanced back at them. Zechs ducked his head, aware that being seen speaking to Barton was enough to constitute odd behaviour. A moment later, she faced forward again.

“I said it could be as dangerous as the spores,” Barton murmured, only loud enough to carry to Zechs' ears, and no louder. “The more I think about it, the more I'm convinced it's the only chance either of you have.”

“And if it kills him?”

Barton didn't say. Probably he hadn't let himself think it even, not yet. Zechs did. Duo was dead no matter what they did for him. It was too late.

The sudden deafening beeping from the direction of the computer console made him jump, his heart pounding furiously. “What is that?” he demanded.

“It's Noventa.” Barton left Duo immediately, striding long-leggedly to Sally's side. “Why's he hailing?”

Sally made the alert disappear by grabbing up a hand-held comm unit. She held it to her mouth, and said, “Zebra Tango responding. What's the problem?”

“This is Commander Noventa,” a tinny voice replied. “I would like to request your presence, Dr Po, for a conference on board my ship.”

Zechs stood. “I don't think you should agree,” he said, sotto voce.

Sally looked back at him again. “I'm not entirely sure I have a choice, Zechs.” She depressed the vocal again. “Could I ask what the conference is about?” she said. “I'll be better prepared if I have a moment to collect myself.”

“No need, Doctor. You can come as you are.”

“Cover-up,” Trowa said.

“Conspiracy,” Zechs corrected. “And they want to start picking us off one by one to join them.”

“You don't know that,” Sally returned. “And the fact of the matter is that they've got the bigger guns right now.” She tugged at her braid. The move was so similar to Duo's habitual gesture that, for a moment, Zechs felt the sting deep in his chest. She put the comm to her mouth again. “Roger that,” she said. “I'll be there as soon as I clean up here.”

“Much appreciated, Doctor.”

Barton shook his head. “Bad idea, Sal.”

Sally stood. “I'll see what he has to say. If they do want one of us on their side, Noventa might be willing to make some concessions to us-- give us a little breathing room. Or it could just be Lena Matwari, ready to pronounce whatever doom she's manipulated out of our data, and she wants an audience.”

Duo flapped a hand, trying to grab at the nearby rail of his gurney. Zechs quieted him. “Do you want one of us with you?”

“Let's not treat this with paranoia.” She gathered charts and print-outs from the console, shuffling them into order. “I'll say the minimum I have to and I'll be back as soon as I can. Don't storm the airlock if I don't make it back in an hour. At this point, I'd even say the longer they drone on, the better it is for us. It means they haven't made any decisions about us yet.”

Barton was chewing his lower lip. Zechs, too, felt a guilty twinge. Would she really disagree with them? Would she really fight them if they were just trying to help Duo?

“Sit tight,” she added, and disappeared into the corridors. The brisk slap of her rubber shoes faded quickly away.

“Fuck,” Barton said. He kicked half-heartedly at Sally's chair before slouching into it. “If Noventa's smart, he's called her there to tell her he's going to blow up the station and all of us on it. The common man hears 'infection' and grabs the nearest torch and pitchfork.”

“We're not infectious.”

“Yet. Sally tells him we don't have a cure yet, and he'll hear the toc tic toc.” Barton moodily savaged his lip between his teeth. “What do you think?”

He had to press Duo's wrist gently to the bed. Wide dilated eyes skipped over his and settled closed. Zechs sighed out a lungsful of poisonous-tasting air. “I think he's going to try and turn it to his advantage. He'd be an idiot not too. Whether he destroys the data or not, the threat would be enough to frighten his political enemies.”

“And Sally might just trade on that if she thinks she can negotiate something for us.” Barton tapped his knee with drumming fingers. “You know why he's got her in there, and not either of us. Because she's a woman. He's working her.”

Some bitter side of himself that had always looked with a curled lip on women like Sally and Lucretia Noin and Lady Une agreed. Women could be respected officers, competent warriors, strategists and even commanders, but too often their gender overrode otherwise neutral characteristics. Yet his more reasonable intellect insisted that Sally was one of the most stable persons-- female or male-- he had ever known; and that Noventa could have no effect on anyone in one short conference. It was merely a ploy, seeking any small advantage. Trying to pick the one out of the group who hadn't yet succumbed to a naturally suspicious personality flaw.

“I'm going for a while,” Zechs said abruptly. “I need to think. Clear my head.”

“You fall down out there and I don't find you this time--”

“We'll both live,” he retorted, and told himself he hadn't just instinctively added 'for now', in his own head. “I've been cooped up here too long. I need to walk it off.”

“Hey.” He looked back over his shoulder. Barton had drawn his stool to the gurney, though he had his files and a hand-held computer pad tucked to Duo's side.

“What?” Zechs asked.

“He would have broken up with you, on Mars. He never stays. He doesn't know how.”

“I was under the impression you broke up with him.”

“Before he could do it to me.”

“Maybe,” Zechs said, “what he really wants is someone strong enough to follow when he runs.”

Barton's jaw clenched. He turned his head down to his files, and didn't say anything else.

 

**

 

Eight, six, eight, six, eight, counter six--

He scrubbed his fingers dry on his shirt.

Eight. Six. Eight. Counter-- no. He wiped his hand again, both hands, and switched the length of pipe he held to his left.

Quarte. Semi-circular search to seconde, semi-circular to quarte. Again.

He tripped on his own bare feet, fetched up to the wall, unable to catch his breath.

He couldn't do it anymore. Couldn't remember it anymore. It would be there one moment, the routine he'd practised at least every week since earliest childhood, but then his arm would start to move and he lost all control of it. Every thrust was as clumsy as if he were a first-year student. His parries were too weak to withstand a live opponent. Too weak even for imaginary solo practise.

He began again. Duo had been able, been active until that last week on the ship, even with the dramatic loss of weight and muscle. Zechs could fight his own deterioration by exercise, by forcing himself to eat as Duo had refused to. Duo was the stubborn one, but Zechs owed his life again and again to the fact of his will. He could execute any maneouvre. Win any war. Rescue anyone-- if he just had the will.

But he failed.

He dented the wall with his fist, and the rattle of the pipe hitting the floor echoed in his ears like thunder. He couldn't save Duo. He couldn't save anything. And this insane idea-- using the reactor to irradiate Duo-- how could he agree? He couldn't even conceive what it would do to the human body. To Duo's fragile human body. Barton was obviously brave enough to risk it. Perhaps Duo would have been as well, if the choice were his. OZ had believed the Gundams to be elaborate suicide pilots, after all, and it had been a near enough thing, so many times. He had never been able to let go like that; to throw himself into certain death with no catch of his breath, like Heero Yuy, to abandon himself to the blackness of Space like Barton, to risk everything for the thrill of sheer possibility, like Duo. It required that kind of abandon to fate, this plan with the reactor. An insane abandon-- an insane amount of courage.

He didn't have it.

He scrubbed his sweaty hair back from his face and neck, and leant into the cool wall. This, at least, was familiar ground. He'd spent his life loathing himself for one thing or another. He bent his will to that and succeeded beyond all high expectation. He hardly knew how to twitch without berating himself to death for it. He held himself to impossible standards and relished his every miscarriage.

At least it amused his lovers. Duo dismissed him in these moods. Treize had been fascinated by them. Treize, of course, Treize had loved himself unabashedly. Say that for the man.

"How do you manage it?” Treize had asked him once. “Hating yourself so utterly while giving the impression that you believe yourself the only perfect human."

They had been in bed. He'd bit Treize's smirking lip, hard enough to sting, and said, "I just pretend I'm you."

He missed Treize. He wished he didn't. So much of their relationship had been ugly, had twisted and soiled the good. He had never expected Treize to die. Treize, he was sure, had done exactly what he meant to do, died exactly as he'd meant to die-- at the hands of a boy who couldn't possibly comprehend it all. Not that Zechs did. No, there was so much about Treize he'd never understood, and he'd never tried, in his lifetime or after. He'd never even mourned Treize.

He regretted that.

Become an adult, a Preventer, perhaps even a good man. Or a better man than he'd been. But if he'd figured it out, let himself... he wouldn't feel so crippled, facing what he did now. Knowing he might have to-- figure out how to mourn Duo.

He couldn't even imagine a future with Duo. Barton's words-- just jealous words, he knew that intellectually. Perhaps, though, not far off the mark. He knew Duo had been uncomfortable with the strength of his feelings. Hadn't truly believed him, at least at first. But they would have had time on Mars, among people, their peers, their fellow Preventers, and in that time Duo would have seen that Zechs did feel exactly as he promised to, and that his feelings were strong enough to wait out Duo's insecurity. Beyond Mars-- it was like meeting a blank wall that imagination couldn't pass.

But a future without Duo was even more impossible to imagine.

He hated paradox. He hated uncertainty. He hated the mess of such painfully human relationships. He'd managed to admit to love; that was always easy. Romantic. Ideal. The tarnish was inevitable. The emotional bloodletting.

No. No, he refused to mourn Duo. He would not. He would do whatever was in his power to forestall that inevitability. Even if it meant killing them both in that oven in the reactor. He would do it.

Because he couldn't imagine being alone again. Not again.

 

When he woke the next morning to find Barton bent over Duo, he sat up quickly, heart hammering. “Progress?” he husked.

Barton met his eyes. His bleak expression said it all. The tiny shake of his head destroyed the last breath of hope.

Duo didn't wake. He had passed into a coma.

 

**

 

“I can put her under,” Barton whispered.

“Put her under?” Zechs repeated, not comprehending.

Barton touched a tray of syringes, rolling them tensely with a tiny click of plastic. “She'd sleep through it. We need uninterrupted time to work on the reactor, this could be the only way to get it.”

Barton had been arguing him into it for almost an hour. Sally slumped before the computers, trying in her own way to force a cure out of the data. Zechs had paced himself sick.

Duo was not waking up. Neither of the doctors would say it, but he knew. Duo would never wake up, now, not without a miracle. Or a nuclear reactor.

“Merquise,” Barton hissed.

He was prone to act. He longed to act-- to be able to just damn do something. But this?

He could not overcome this hesitation. His self-berating, his own fear of cowardice had laid bare any pretensions to a 'conservative approach', as Treize had once more kindly called it. But Treize had never hesitated over anything. How many years had Zechs wasted on wishes for that same confidence? If Treize were here, in fact, he had no doubt that Treize would have weighed the risks and the benefits and would have come up with a plan at the first sign Duo was ill.

Then again, Treize had never allowed love to blind him. Assuming he was capable of love of all.

But Zechs was. And it could make him weak, as it had with Treize. Or inspire strength. Couldn't be strong for Duo? Hadn't he been doing so already? He'd kept Duo strong, got him all the way here. But they had made it to Zebra Tango by pretending they didn't know Duo was fatally ill-- by pretending it wasn't their own friends and colleagues responsible for poisoning him. Both of them. He had denied the urgency he felt because he worried it was clouding his objective judgment.

“Merquise, we need to decide this.”

“Give me time to think.”

“What time?”

Sally stirred, glancing at them over her shoulder. Barton ducked his head to Duo; Zechs resumed his pacing.

The scrape of her chair made him start. “I'm going to shower,” she said. “And make up the rest of that soup. The two of you should consider it. None of us can think on empty stomachs.”

“Later, Sal,” Barton said.

“Not too much later, Trowa.” She gazed at them both. Zechs felt the weight of her eyes. But then she turned, and the curtain fell with a soft sigh as she left.

Perhaps it was his objective judgment that had clouded the one clear reality he knew. Duo would die if they didn't do something. Perhaps the bacteriophages would work, given time. Perhaps they even had the time. But Zechs himself was already infected. Barton and Sally were at risk as well. Noventa wouldn't be patient forever-- whatever his political leanings, he had a moral obligation to contain a deadly outbreak, and he would.

“Merquise--”

“What do we have to do to bring the reactor online?” he asked heavily.

Barton nodded tightly, his eyes intensifying in the dim light in his excitement. “I've been looking at it. I won't lie to you-- it's iffy, but I think it will fire. There were activations codes to hack. I got those last night.”

Ah. Zechs noted that 'last night' and wondered just how long Barton would have waited to do this on his own. Which little syringe on that tray there might have been prepared for Zechs, anticipating drastic measures?

But really, why did Barton wait on his agreement at all-- unless he needed the validation? Perhaps it was a doctor's unwillingness to endanger a patient. Or a lover's fear of losing someone forever. With that, Zechs could sympathise. The paralytic fear stymied all action, and yet he was terrified not to act.

All pointless questions, in a way. The fact was that Barton had come to him, and now the decision was his. He would not have had it otherwise.

"And once activated,” he said. “How long?"

"The manuals say twenty-five minutes. I'm hoping for something close to that. I don't think the reactor's been maintained at all."

More than likely, it hadn't been looked at since it was deactivated. The Alliance had never liked to budget for useless scrap heaps, and without Deep Space travel, that was all Zebra Tango was. "Say forty minutes at the outside,” Zechs guessed. “I've been there to look at it. We need both an in-point and an exit that can be utilised even once the reactor is out-putting. If he vaporises in the chamber..."

Barton was chalky pale. But said, “It's all computerised. I can override automatic locks manually. As long as we can get in and get him out again, we can--”

“And how do we judge how long to keep him inside? Can you even read the metres accurately? You said exposing him--”

"He wouldn't want to go down without a fight."

So there would be no control, essentially. Only that radical notion of what Duo wanted. What they thought Duo wanted. The last insane, suicidal grasp at a cure that might kill. The tightness in his chest achieved an outlet; and he regretted even as it left his lips. "Maybe he would-- rather die than live a half-life. You didn't see him, in the last week before we boarded here. Maybe he would rather die than live crippled by disease. We have to at least... consider the idea.”

"I know he wants to fight,” Barton said harshly. “You should too. Look at the way he's lived his entire life and at least respect him enough not to give up."

“It's not a question of surrender.” It was what Sally had told him-- that the damage might be permanent. And in his heart, Zechs didn't believe Duo would want to be saved just to live like this, a shell of himself, worse than disabled. Mindless. It was an affront to the fabric of the universe, a Duo Maxwell who couldn't speak out against injustices, a Duo Maxwell who couldn't argue for the truth, even if it was just his own truth; who couldn't exercise that unbending will to so much as decide for himself. Would it be better, would he think it was better, to die, than to live like that? Was Zechs wrong to gamble with something Duo might see as sacrosanct?

"We should make the most of our time," he tried, and had to clear his throat. "Get it activated."

Barton's shoulders fell slack in relief. "I'll get it started."

Duo lay limp and unmoving as a corpse, with only the heat of his fever to prove he was alive. Barton readied him, removing the IVs and the bacteriophage implant, Zechs wrapping him in extra blankets to protect him from the cold of the station's innards. The gurney, thankfully, was mobile; Zechs pushed it from the wall as Barton prepared a pile of supplies. Fresh IV solutions, morphine. Quite a lot of morphine, but Zechs stayed mum. They were to the point where contingencies had to be considered. Barton's hands were shaking, and there was a newly grim set to his jaw. Zechs imagined he looked much the same.

“Let's go,” he said.

“Ready,” Barton confirmed, stepping to the end of the gurney to help in steering. But almost as soon as he touched the rail he froze. “Do you hear that?”

“Sally,” Zechs guessed, dropping automatically into a whisper. Futile. She hardly had any other stops to make, and her footsteps were coming closer. “Can you distract her?”

“She'll notice her patient has disappeared.” Barton wiped sweat from his upper lip. “Fuck. What do we do?”

Zechs' heart was hammering his chest. He touched perspiration of his own; his temples and the back of his neck were soaked, and it was difficult to breathe, suddenly. He could not force himself into calm. Was this how Duo had felt? Trapped and unable to think beyond the rapidly dawning waste of his remaining options.

“We try to convince her,” he said. “And if we don't-- be ready.”

Barton gripped the gurney rail with both fists. He stared down at Duo's body. “Yes.”

And then she was there. She turned the corner, her wet hair dripping down her scrubs as she bowed her head over the tray of soup bowls she carried. “I'm back,” she called ahead to them. “We've got a cup of tomato and two of potato and leek--” And then Sally's head came up. She stopped where she stood, precisely in their path to the corridor beyond. “What are you doing?”

Barton turned to face her, squaring his shoulders. “We were doing nothing,” he told her flatly, pleadingly. “We were letting him die.”

It was only seconds for Sally to comprehend what she saw, at least enough to leap to stop it. She dropped her tray on the table and strode quickly toward them, locking her hands beside Barton's on the foot rail of Duo's gurney, squaring her body before it. "We weren't doing nothing,” she said. Calmly, reasonably-- warily. “We're doing something as smartly as we can. Which is to get the right 'phage to attack the right disease."

"They sent the right fucking 'phage, didn't they? This was a set-up from the beginning."

"We don't know anything for sure.” She stopped her younger colleague with a hand to his chest when Barton tried to push her aside. “We're scientists, Trowa. It's our job to conduct our own observations. And we're doctors, more importantly. Risky treatments harm more patients than they help."

"Neither of them have anything to lose, and very little time. We can't screw around making observations forever."

“Sally,” Zechs interrupted. Her eyes flicked to his face. “It's not a choice we've made lightly. And you should know-- we've tried the 'phages already.”

“What?” Her face went slack in shock. “How?”

“Implant,” Barton said shortly. “And it didn't damn work.” He studied her, eyes narrowed. "What are you hiding?" he demanded. "Are you operating with more information than I am, Sally? Or a different agenda?"

"You suspect me now?" Her blue eyes blazed. Through clenched teeth, she said, "I forgive that only because I know how much you care about Duo, but don't you dare suggest I'm part of the conspiracy, Barton."

"No-one suspects you," Zechs soothed, looking between the two doctors from lowered lashes. To have come so close-- he wasn't sure if he was relieved or ashamed. Barton scrubbed at the stubble on his cheek, breathing raggedly. "Look at him, Sally. Days? Even that? What is there left to slow down for?"

"I'm a doctor,” Sally said. “I'm that boy's doctor. If he were well enough to make an informed decision I would help him do that, but you know as well as I do we make tough decisions for our patients because we know more than they do. And what I know is that if I slip up or rush ahead of myself, I can kill him. I'm not willing to do that, and you should damn well be ashamed that you are."

"He's out of time. You know that."

"When I give up I'll inform you. Meanwhile, you back off and let me do my job."

Barton was humming with humiliation and fury. Duo lay, the centre of all the drama, still as cordwood. "I'm not some green intern going off half-cocked, damn it,” Barton snapped. “My treatment plan was sound."

"Unless it's not the right 'phage for the strain, in which case all you've done is waste time and resources and given Zechs-- yes, I just bet you talked him into this, assuming he didn't talk you into it-- giving him false hope. And that is green. And frankly, it's cruel, too."

"No-one is under any illusions here." Barton switched tracks, imploring her. "I've been looking at the fungal load in his blood hourly. If he was going to respond, it would have registered already."

“If you placed the right--”

“It's the only one we've got!”

Zechs ended the argument by lifting Duo from the gurney into his arms. Both doctors jumped toward him, but Zechs skittered back. "This is not your choice to make," he said loudly, over their protests. “I am going to do this.”

Sally clung to his arm, but not to stop him-- she was supporting Duo's head, keeping his breathing passages open, touching the pulse in his throat. “Do what? Where are you taking him? Your ship? You won't make it anywhere else before--”

“There's a reactor on station. Barton and I agree it's time to try something drastic.”

He was plenty close to see the wash of horror that went over her. "You'll kill him, Zechs!"

"He's already dead."

“Not like--” She covered her mouth, overcome. “Even if he were to die of the infection, Zechs, it's nothing compared to how awful his death of radiation poisoning would be. He could die of gamma burns. Even if he survived the exposure, his life would depend on intensive medical care that we just can't give him here. His bone marrow would be destroyed-- he would need a transplant. His gastric and intestinal tissue would be severely damaged. He could die of infection or even internal bleeding. He'll die delirious-- he'll go into a coma and even then he'll be in pain as his circulation shuts down completely. He could last a week, and it would be a horrible horrible week, Zechs. Don't do this.”

He wavered. It was impossible not to, envisioning Duo suffering like that.

“I left the Alliance because they were willing to use biological weapons,” she said. She pleaded with him. “I've seen the damage. I've held men and women in my arms as they died from something another human being justified in his heart.”

He stepped back, away from her. “I am not inflicting some terrible punishment on him. Those men out there already did that. Preventers did it to us. I'm going to save him. If I can. And if I can't, at least...”

“We'll have tried,” Barton finished. “So either help us or look the other way, Sally.”

They made it two yards, on that gauntlet.

Then-- “No,” Sally said. “I can't let you do that.” There was a sound of hard plastic and glass overturning to the floor in a hurried shove, and then a sound Zechs would have known anywhere. The cocking of a gun.

His arms were tiring. Nor did his stomach appreciate the tension; he was nauseated, sweat cooling on his forehead. He might not have the strength to take Duo all that long way into the station. But it would be all the harder if he had to do it wounded.

He turned back with a deep breath. "I have nothing to lose, Sally,” he said heavily. “Neither of us do. You won't shoot us."

"Put Duo down. I will fire."

And then Barton was between them. Holding a gun identical to Sally's, aimed not a chest-point, as hers was, but at her forehead. Now, though, his hands were rock-solid. "It doesn't have to be this way."

"If Duo dies, that will be very sad. But that's vastly different from being the man who ends his life."

Barton said, "I think I can live with it."

"Well I can't. I took an oath as a doctor, and I owe him as a friend. So either put him down, or this will get ugly."

Duo was frighteningly light in his arms. Yet he was weakening.

Sally's gun wavered between the two men. "Put him down, Zechs."

He shook his head in mute denial. He hugged Duo closer to his chest, and bent to kiss the crown of his head. “I can't. I won't.”

"Which of us are you going to shoot, Sally?" Barton demanded. He waved Zechs back. “Move. We need to get him to the reactor.”

Zechs began to move. His back tingled, so broad and unprotected a target, even with Barton between him and the weapon that aimed at him. But Sally's voice chased him like her footsteps. "If I have to,” she called, “I'll fire at both of you. And you better believe that you won't get far even if you shoot me first. Any sign of fighting on station and Noventa will board with a dozen armed men. They will stop you."

They made it to the first turn past the crew quarters into the main corridors. There were fewer lights here, and the dark walls and short ceilings gave everything a nightmarish claustrophobia. Zechs said to the still air ahead of him, "You'd kill two men to stop a potentially life-saving treatment on a dying man?"

"Yet one more sign that you're not operating at full capacity, Zechs."

“Zechs,” Barton said, “Make a break for it.”

He made it one step. And then the retort of a gun had him sprinting for the cover of an off-branching hallway. He didn't look back until he was past the corner, safe behind the wall. He slid to a crouch, cradling Duo over his knees. The sound of a scuffle behind him went on, grunts and fleshy impacts-- and then, the heavy thump of a body falling to the floor. Panting breaths limped toward him, and he held Duo close, preparing to run.

Barton appeared at the head of the hall. Sweat streaked his face and the front of his scrubs, but the dark splotch leaking down his leg was blood, from a gunshot just beneath his knee. He gripped the wall to keep himself upright, as Zechs rose with Duo.

Trowa pressed two bloody fingers to Duo's neck for his pulse. He turned flat eyes up to Zechs. “She was probably right about one thing,” he said. “If Noventa's men are monitoring us at all, they'll have noticed the reactor powering up. One of us will have to stay back to slow them down. We need time.”

Zechs twisted once to look back as they moved on. The motion-sensor lights had already gone out, and all he could see was a dark form sprawled there behind them. He didn't ask if she was still alive, but his throat was tight.

"Do you want to stop and see to that?" he asked.

Barton shook his head sharply. "I'll bandage it while you and Duo are in the unit."

“Can you block the airlock at all?”

“Much as I'd love to, they probably would blow us out of Space for that.” Barton relied on the wall for balance, but propelled himself along at considerable speed, forcing Zechs to hurry to keep up. “When we get there, I'll find you that way in. We'll put him in there. We'll need to be on the outside, past the shielding, or we'll be exposed as well. One of us will be, getting him out. Even when it's turned off there will be residual radiation.”

“I'll do it,” Zechs said. “Don't argue with me. You've got an open wound. I'm not a scientist, but that's too much danger.”

“We'll see.”

“How will it work?”

“Doses of total body irradiation in controlled conditions are usually at 10 to 12 Grays, but that's with aggressive medical care. And that's when it's fractioned. Sally was-- Sally was right, this could make him almost as sick as he is now.” Barton grimaced deeply, but pushed himself onward. “The best we can do is aim for something below fatal. And wait.”

And then they were there. Barton found the light panel, throwing the bay into sharp relief. Without the darkness, it took on a monstrous implacability. All the graphic warnings pasted to the doors loomed larger than they had when he'd been here only-- only thirty hours ago. He hadn't truly imagined it then. Could he live with himself, if Duo died in there? Died alone, a frail beating heart that had so far refused to give up even as the body around it withered hour by hour. Could he say with certainty that if it were him, he would want another to make that decision for him, if the hope were so slim?

Not questions with which he was comfortable. Not questions he thought he could bear. He never analysed himself past the point where it began to sting; he wasn't that brave, wasn't that strong. But he was well past that point now. Point of no return.

And that was when he made the decision to enter the chamber with Duo.

If they died together, so be it. There was a certain fairness in accepting the same fate he consigned Duo to. And a certain clemency in-- a suicide committed under these conditions. A suicide and a murder.

Barton propped himself on the control console, fingers flying in whatever sequence he had read in his research. A low thrum of waking machinery did begin around them. And a window he had not known was a window was suddenly awakened to brightness, displaying the very chamber Zechs had imagined-- concrete, steel, snaking pipes, and, in the centre of the chamber, the almost rocket-shaped core itself.

“The containment chamber,” Barton told him shortly. “That's the reactor in there. It's the final barrier to radioactive release. When you're inside the chamber, you need to open the repair release on the reactor vessel. That will release the radiation from the core. There might be steam. Emergency systems will condense any steam that escapes, so he'll be safe from scalds. But it could create fallout-- irradiated water.” He put his palm on a crank, and pushed it up to the highest lock. “I think-- I think it needs twenty minutes at this level of exposure.”

“All right,” Zechs said, the most he could speak just then. “All right.”

“We'll have to count it. None of the clocks loaded on their own and I couldn't reset them.”

“All right.” His arms ached. He was dizzy. If only Duo could give him some sign. Some sign. The waiting was hell.

“It's up,” Barton said finally, shattering the quiet hum. “We're go.”

“Get that door open.”

Barton punched a button. Clamps released, though red lights lit all over the console. “Go,” Barton said. “And then get back here.”

It was time. It was happening.

“Go,” Barton repeated.

He had to bend under the low lintel, and he was only inches through when the door slid shut behind him. It was much louder inside the chamber. Pumps, compressors, and electric equipment all contributed to the noise. None of it was as deafening as the silence in his own head.

There was a short ladder up the side of the reactor to the second level. He climbed it backward, clinging with his elbows as he pushed himself up step by step, holding Duo close. He got the release open in the same way, operating the lever latch between his shoulder and cheek. It was large enough for a man of his bulk, if only just. By squirming and forcing it, he got Duo through first, unable to cushion him against a slight fall over the lip of the hatch, then scrambled in after him. He unwrapped the blankets, so that they wouldn't block the radiation. He cupped Duo's drawn face, and turned to the reactor core.

One final deep breath. He opened the repair release.

There was a single loud clack. He felt nothing. He didn't look down into the dark of the core. He didn't want to see it. He simply turned his back on it, dropping to the concrete at Duo's side.

He was scared. He could admit that much, holding Duo's thin hand in both of his. It was doom he felt hovering around him, as if the radiation that was now flowing out to surround them could be a taste on his tongue. They were trapped here together, in this little chamber no larger than one of their suites on the ship. Their ship. Even given what it had done to them, he couldn't regret the time they'd had there, together.

“Ti takAya valnUyashaya,” he whispered. “Ti takAya Iskrennaya. Ti--”

Duo shuddered. He rolled his head, his free hand falling beside his head, fingers curled to a fist.

Was it working? “It's all right, Duo,” he said. He brushed Duo's hair back, kissed the hand that he held; until Duo pulled it away. Awake at last, but he wouldn't settle. His wasted legs began to move restlessly, as the air around them became muggy and warm. The escaping steam. A flashing light began from the other side of the window; he looked, but couldn't see Barton, couldn't see anything. If Barton could see them, he would know Zechs wasn't coming back.

“Duo, shh,” he whispered. “Lie still. Not much longer.” He was counting the seconds. One-hallelujah, two-hallelujah, three. Fourteen minutes more.

Maybe Duo could feel it. He pushed Zechs away with strength he hadn't had since before they'd docked at Zebra, shoving at him when Zechs tried to gather him close. His eyes were open wide, dilated to black, and his breathing was deeper, ragged. He shook like a leaf in a headwind.

Ten minutes. The flashing light took on an urgent frenetic pulse. Zechs heard the steam escaping, now.

Duo moaned. Zechs held his arms as tightly as he could, but Duo fought him with sudden strength. He kicked, he thrashed, even as bruises bloomed on his skin from Zechs' grip. His voice rattled in his throat.

Zechs knew, then. He knew what was coming. "Don't,” he begged. “Don't leave me. Duo, no."

Duo wrenched free one final time. He clawed with both hands at the back of his head. At the spore blister.

It was a fine mist. Faintly moist. It smelled-- dusty. Fecund, almost rotten. Zechs breathed in just as it exploded into a cloud around them both. It made him cough. He hacked, strangled, trying to smother it in his arm, until he could breathe again.

All movement ceased. Duo lay utterly still now. His eyes were closed. Zechs felt his neck. His fingers were numb, but he didn't think he could feel anything. He didn't think-- didn't think Duo was--

“I'm sorry,” he choked. “Duo. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.” His eyes burned. Hot tears spilled over his face, roughly swiped away as he bent his head to Duo's still chest. “I'm sorry,” he repeated mindlessly. “I failed you.”

The light stopped flashing. Even it was dead.

He wished he was. He would be, soon. All he had to do was stay in here. If he stayed in here long enough, he would die, too. He was ready. He'd been ready his whole life.

One minute. One-hallelujah. Two-hallelujah.

 

One minute past the time limit.

Two.

 

He felt Duo's chest move. He wasn't sure of it, at first. He didn't comprehend it at first. How could it mean anything, now?

 

Three.

 

Duo's head moved. His chin fell back. And his hand, locked in Zechs', curled over his fingers.

 

**

 

He made it to his knees, creaking and wobbly. He saw a slit of white beneath Duo's lashes. He felt weak, dangerously so, and could only pull Duo along with him back to the hatch, to the ladder. He kicked the hatch wide, sliding his legs out to tug Duo after him.

“Hand him out now! Quickly!”

Man's voice-- not Barton. Zechs risked his balance for a quick look. A man-- three men, suited against the radiation, all with out-stretched arms. Noventa's men. Noventa himself, right there at the ladder, nearest to him.

It took both of them to get Duo down the ladder, and Zechs watched with his heart in his throat as they hurried Duo away, out the chamber and off into the bowels of the station. One of the suited soldiers remained behind, gesturing for him to come down as well. “Come on, Agent Merquise,” he said. “We need to get you to the clinic.”

A tremor raced up his spine. Over? He didn't know. He felt-- too light. Lifting his hand to grasp the man's arm felt like-- swimming. As if he were a ghost already.

 

Barton wasn't outside anymore. More of Noventa's men, arguing over the controls. They stopped as one, as Zechs was hurried past. They stared after him as he went.

A woman he didn't know was in the clinic now, grey hair wound in a tight chignon and a pinched face expressive of distaste. Her white coat identified her as a doctor. It must have been that Lena Matwari, the woman both Barton and Sally had condemned as an opportunist. Something in him wearily protested to see her taking over territory that had in some way belonged to him, but he said nothing.

“The showers,” Matwari told his guard. “He needs to be washed of any fallout. Hurry.”

And so he was hustled off again, two of Noventa's men bringing him to that row of crew quarters they'd powered up a week ago. The door to their usual one was open, crowded with armed men. He heard a raised voice inside-- Barton.

They pushed him into the quarters beside that room, flipping on the harsh lights overhead, pushing him into the little bath suite. One reached into the shower and set it running. “Someone find soap,” he snapped, as he unhooked a little hand-held console from his belt. He ran it over Zechs' body as he was forcibly stripped by the other men. “Keep your suits on, everyone. Let's not take chances.”

“I can do it myself,” Zechs interrupted, still with that feeling of being far underwater. He resisted the shove that tried to push him under the shower flow. “I can--”

“I'll help.” It was Sally. She wore a square of gauze on her temple that had a dark spot of blood on it, and there were walls up in her eyes now. But Noventa's men deferred to her, and she produced an old-fashioned bar of soap and a scratchy flannel. “Wash everything, even your hair,” she told him. “There was steam in the chamber, and your skin will be the most affected. Get off as much as you can.”

“Duo,” Zechs said. Her gloved hands urged him under the spray, and he went. He soaped the flannel slowly, until his mind waked to what he was meant to do. “Duo. Is he--”

“He's alive,” Sally said. “That's all I can say right now. I'm going back to him. Do you understand me? Wash everything, twice. Three times. And then they'll take you back to your ship.”

“The ship? Why?”

“Under guard,” she said. “Noventa's moved to take Zebra Tango under control. We don't have choices any more.”


	10. Ten

“So I'm just never to be allowed near them again?” Trowa repeated. “With Noventa's bully-boys standing between me and the door, I take it.”

Sally glanced frowningly at him from her perch over his propped-up leg. She crisply sealed the fresh gauze with medical tape and patted it into place. “If Duo had died, or, for that matter, if Duo and Zechs had died in that reactor together, you'd be facing a court martial and a hefty serving of jail time.”

“But they didn't,” Trowa repeated, again. He swung his leg off the pile of pillows. “Besides which, I think we're in the definition of war-time. You want to try me, you'll have to wait and see who wins.”

“Maybe.” She washed her hands slowly with a damp cloth, as he watched her from the corners of his eyes. Their shuttle was considerably more cramped than the one parked next door holding Merquise, and their two bodies just about filled it. With the light gravity they had from dock they were stuck grounded by their bunks in only six-by-four walking space mostly occupied by the bedframes. It added to the tension between them. That and an aching leg made him sharper than it was smart to be, but he wanted back on the station, back where he could see what was going on, and Sally was the most convenient punching bag. Punching bag who'd shot him, even if she had managed a through-and-through.

“Maybe,” Sally said, and tossed her cloth onto its tray. “But what I can do right now is recommend the Board revoke your license to practise, here and on Mars. And if there's no convening authority left anywhere at the moment, then you can consider yourself barred by me.”

That was unexpected. He'd been sort of thinking he would argue her around once she blew off her steam and threatened him a while. That was no bluff, though. That was the announcement of someone who'd stopped respecting him-- someone who'd just lost the trust they'd built over years as mentor and student, colleague, friend.

It took him a minute to fire back with the rejoinder he'd been planning. “Duo and Merquise are cured. And no longer infectious, which Noventa will be glad to hear.”

“The 'phages--”

“We'll never know if the 'phages would've worked, but using friends as guinea pigs is not something I can live with. And not something Preventers is supposed to do. Maybe Une meant it as a hail Mary, but Duo was too far along.”

"What you did as a friend and a soldier I'm not disputing. I'm saying, and you failing to understand further demonstrates, that what you did as a doctor was an ethical failure." Sally stood with the tray. "If you can't live by that, then I won't endanger any other patients by putting them under your care."

"It worked,” he said slowly, deliberately. “That negates any supposed ethical failure."

"No. It doesn't. And I genuinely wish you could recognise that." She stowed the tray in a closed drawer, and turned to climb up the ladder for the hatch. "Your license is revoked. If there's a council left, you can appeal."

"My patients wanted it.” He grabbed her ankle, stopping her rise. “Damn it, Sally. Stop this."

"You can have a supervised visit with Duo when you've got yourself under control."

He released her so hard she almost lost her footing. "Fuck you."

He heard her sigh. She twisted about, agilely clinging to the ladder with one arm behind her. “Maybe this is my fault. Not addressing this with you. I went into military medicine after school-- I was a doctor before I was a soldier. The priorities are different. It's people, then mission, Trowa.”

“You're really going to lecture me about being a doctor?”

“Who else is going to be straight with you? Merquise? He's just like you. You practise medicine the same way you fight wars, Trowa, you throw everything you have at the problem until you mow it under. Being a doctor, you have to know there's a line. Your patient is supposed to be on the other side of it.”

“I did what I thought I had to do!”

“And you've never had a problem before with sucking up and dealing with the consequences.”

That brought him up short. He didn't have an answer for that one.

After a moment of silence, Sally nodded. “Rest for a bit. Matwari is finishing up Duo's tests. I'll get you when you can sit with him.”

“Yeah.” He had to clear his throat. “Okay. Thanks.”

She nodded again, and left him alone.

 

**

 

"Supervised!"

"Supervised," Sally repeated flatly. "Take it or leave it."

"May I ask why?" Zechs demanded.

"Is there something in the water?" She examined a red patch of skin on his arm, and noted it in her log. "Before you settle too deeply into this feeling of moral righteousness, consider something. Do you know what radiation sickness is?"

"Yes, Sally. I flew mobile suits for most of my military career. I've been exposed to radiation scores of times.” He yanked his arm away as soon as she let him go, to scratch at the spot. Skin was already flaking, and half his arm, the half that had been exposed by a rolled sleeve, was pebbled with a rash-like spread. He had similar patches on his throat and cheeks, both hands. He ached, and that was not the worst of it. The nausea was a constant battle, but he refused to show weakness. He had dealt with it when it was the spores. “At least this has come to me by my own actions. My choice. Live and die fighting. And Duo's choice.”

"No. No, Zechs, you and Trowa chose for Duo. He was well past the point of consent to any treatment. And we're not talking minor exposures from behind shielding. You, you personally, exposed yourself and Duo without his fully informed consent to a massive full-body exposure.” She ticked the points off with her stylus. “Nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, fatigue, headache, shortness of breath, rapid heartbeat, inflammation of the mouth and throat, tooth and gum disease, hair loss, dry cough, heart inflammation with chest pain, burning, bleeding spots under the skin, haemorrhage. And that's all assuming he survives the next two to four weeks. That you survive them. And considering you've wound up on this station because you were exposed to a disease without your fully informed consent, I have to say I find it more than a little hypocritical that you're so blasé about having inflicted it on Duo again."

"Duo wasn't going to survive another day without risking the reactor."

Sally's jaw was tightly clenched. “You're anaemic,” she said finally. “I want to start you on blood transfusion. And a round of antibiotics to prevent infection of the sores. You took the potassium iodide and the Neumune?”

“All of it,” he replied frostily.

“I'll have to return to the clinic for the IV. I've asked Matwari to sample Noventa's crew for a donor.” Sally hung her stethoscope about her neck and packed her medical bag. “I'll be back when--”

Zechs didn't let her finish that sentence. He stood. “I'll go with you. I can pass the time waiting with Duo.”

“Zechs--”

"I'm firing you as my physician,” he said. “I want Barton."

"Too damn bad," she replied in much the same tone.

"I don't trust you."

"Too. Damn. Bad."

"That's exactly why I don't trust you."

"I feel exactly the same way toward you, Zechs." Sally blew out a deep breath. The bandage on her head lifted enough for her fingertip, to adjust the lay of the pad over her temple. She fluffed the honey-coloured fringe of her hair over the wrapping. "You can sit with him. Trowa will want to see him too.”

He grudging agreed. "I can live with that."

She gathered her log and medical bag and shouldered them. "Noventa authorised me to bring you back off your ship. You can go. They're escorting us everywhere."

Nothing joking. There was an armed man-- in a cobalt jumper and wearing a badge that proclaimed 'CC', which Zechs took to be the designation of Noventa and Cameron's corps. The man was easily two stone heavier than Zechs, and could have lifted Sally with one finger. There were more of the uniformed troops in his ship's tiny corridor, and four more in their quarters, overturning everything, tossing their limp mattresses into the hall, ripped open at the seams. One of them had found the vodka he'd brought along illicitly, his fencing foil, the book-- that, he had a hard time leaving in their hands. But it was only a book, and in itself it didn't mean anything, anymore.

The cargo bay was another question. The bacteriophages. There had been that. Was there more? Had there been anything truthful about their mission, even the manifest? He had, he was sure, no way of knowing.

“How many men does he have?” he asked Sally quietly, as they stood in the airlock waiting decompression. The wind of suction covered their conversation. He wondered what she would tell him-- if it would be the truth.

“I've counted twenty,” she answered, her lips not even moving, her eyes forward. “Assuming they're still manning their shuttle, if not their suits, there's got to be five more. And assuming they don't want us to see their entire strength, there's probably ten more on top of that.”

Thirty to thirty five. If he judged Noventa as well as he thought he did, there would be another thirty at a wider range-- a big enough force to hold off reinforcements from Mars, in case Sally or Trowa had managed to get a message out. Even if the four of them managed to get away in one of the shuttles, they wouldn't make it anywhere.

“They're not masked,” he noted suddenly.

“No.”

“Matwari must have concurred. That the radiation killed the spores.”

“Neither you nor Duo show any signs of them, no. Matwari excised Duo's spore blister. It was dead tissue. Whatever it might have become, it's not now.”

“And Noventa's taking her word for it?”

“She's his expert. That's why he brought her.”

A new escort walked them from the airlock to the clinic. To add to his assessment, he studied each soldier they passed, covertly. They were not, he discovered, the type of young, fresh-faced recruits Treize, and himself for that matter, had always preferred. They were his age and older, a few even meeting what he might call 'grizzled veteran' status-- one with grey in his beard, another who might have been serving long enough to have been with Alliance before Treize had created the Specials Unit. Men who might have served under the original Noventa. He wondered if they were loyal first to Cameron, or his cousin.

Noventa himself sat at a newly installed security station just inside the clinic door. Interesting. Noventa sat stiff-backed on a plastic folding chair, deep in a murmured conversation over the comm, a man with lieutenant's stripes leaning over him to view their screen. Their talk ceased immediately when Zechs and Sally entered, both heads rising to stare. Zechs met Noventa's gaze head on, refusing to be bowed. He inclined his head briefly, a gesture between equals. It took Noventa a long time to return it, and then he immediately ignored Zechs, returning to his quiet discussion.

Zechs forgot him as quickly. He hurried past Sally to Duo's gurney. Duo looked the same-- which was both reassuring and strangely discomfiting. He had the radiation burn rash, too, over greater skin area; his arms and legs had been entirely exposed by his hospital gown. He was carefully propped on clean sheets, his limbs shiny with ointment. He was still intubated, a mechanical ventilator hissing with regular compressions that raised his chest in shallow breaths. But he didn't look too much worse than before-- even a little better, maybe. Better, at least, than when Zechs had thought him dead inside the radiation chamber. Anything was better than that.

Sally rolled a stool to his knees, and he sat. "He hasn't waked yet," she told him.

He was gentle lifting Duo's hand, to avoid disturbing the liniment. "I intend to be here when he does.”

“Doctor Po.” It was Matwari, who, Zechs noticed, was bearing the same undereye shadows as everyone else, now. The last twenty-four hours had exhausted everyone. “I have samples of A Positive ready for transfusion.”

“Here.” Sally placed two tabs in Zechs' palm. “Acetaminophen. To prevent transfusion reaction. This will take about four hours. Since you'll be sitting here anyway, that shouldn't be a problem.”

He swallowed the tabs dry. “No,” he said. “It will not. Why hasn't he waked?”

“He's still in coma.”

“But he was awake. In the reactor.”

“I know you think it looked like he was. But it's possible that was just the last stage of the infection. We really don't know. All I can tell you is that right now, there's no evidence he ever came out of the coma.” Sally pulled an IV tower near and strung it with line. Matwari joined her, carrying a cooler from which emerged a bag of blood. Matwari also prepped Zechs, placing the catheter and hooking it to the bag. “I'll be right here,” Sally said. “If you have any questions.” To his surprise, she touched his shoulder, with something that might have been sympathy. Inexplicably, it gladdened him to see that. He supposed they hadn't quite given up on each other yet. Then both women were gone, standing aside for their own low-voiced conversation. For the moment, he was alone with Duo.

He had really hoped, not nearly as deeply down as would be wise, that Duo would instantly be well, after their exposure in the reactor. Despite the radiation burns and a lingering headache, Zechs actually felt better, himself-- more alert, more attuned to small details than he thought he had been in some time. Faced with the direness of Duo's condition it had been easy to overlook the incremental encroachment of the disease; looking back he felt as though he'd been viewing the world from under a thick veil, the last few months. He was remarkably clear now. He'd been more affected than he'd known.

Had Duo felt it coming? There had been so many things they hadn't talked about. Duo hadn't let him in. And he supposed he'd been distracted-- and couldn't blame the spores for that. He'd let sex and eventually love keep him from acknowledging moments that might have been important, moments of frustration and temper and waning interest in their one shared passion, the book. There were good reasons crew were discouraged from sexual relationships. If there were still a Preventers Command, both he and Duo would be up on disciplinary charges.

As would the young man who stepped to his side. Barton's quiet limp identified him, but Zechs knew who he was without that. There was only one other person who had reason, had need, to sit at this particular bedside.

Barton checked the screens and Duo's chart, and eased himself with a grimace onto the edge of the gurney. He at least chose the side opposite Zechs, where he wouldn't obstruct Zechs' vigil, but there was still something proprietary about the way he bent to stroke hair from Duo's face. Zechs let it pass. For the moment, at least, they had common ground.

"He'll live," Barton said finally.

"You're certain?"

"About that, yes."

"But in what capacity, you don't know."

"He'll be damaged. That's not in question." Barton stared down at Duo, his fingers twining slowly with a lock of long brown hair. His voice was just a little husky when he spoke again. "I don't know if he ever told you. The rest of us-- Heero and Quatre and Wufei and I-- we've all had major problems. Operations, treatment. I think it's what killed it for Duo and me, in the end. He never got over feeling guilty about it.”

“Why would he have been guilty?” Wait-- yes, Duo had told him about that. Heero Yuy had had a brain tumor. Barton had lost a kidney. “It wasn't his fault.”

“He never got sick. He never gets sick, ever.”

“He told me that,” Zechs whispered. “I thought he was lying.”

“Not even during the L2 Plague, not when the rest of us were down.” Barton scratched his nose, and closed his eyes tiredly. “Hell of a way to get yours. Anyway. It's what made me want to be a doctor. Getting sick. It gave me power over what was happening to me, I guess. At least I understood it. I knew the battleground. Didn't figure it had such a quick expiration date. Four years to find something I couldn't treat."

There was nothing to say to that. He understood exactly. "I'm grateful," he answered finally.

"You got him here." Barton hopped awkwardly off the gurney and slid backward into a chair, propping up his leg on the bottom shelf of one of the monitors. "If he'd been alone, he wouldn't have made it this far."

"And now we wait."

Their mutual silence didn't last long. He remembered Barton as a grim shadow to Yuy's stone-like non-responsiveness, but time or nerves had made him more talkative. Or Duo's influence. Zechs supposed he'd started to miss conversation, himself. Besides, the quiet only drew attention to the fact that Duo himself, on display between them, contributed nothing. What if this was it? What if they'd waited too long after all, and this was all that was left of Duo. A body that might as well have been a corpse. That would be the ultimate betrayal. Duo wouldn't want a life that was nothing more than mindless breath, a not-life that could last for years. Decades.

"They won't let us stay here,” Barton said. “Preventers disbanded. Sal's not sure what's going to happen about Mars. Not that anyone can get off planet. There won't be anywhere to land on Earth, no yards that aren't controlled by Cameron. So that just leaves the question of what they do with us next."

"They meant us to die out there,” Zechs answered. “Une, the President, whomever. The reasons probably don't matter now. But I'm not sure if I believe Noventa's promises about justice and a day in court."

"Noventa respects you."

"Respect may be too strong a word."

"I didn't say he liked you. But he respects you.” Barton rolled his chair to the cooler, and returned with a frozen gel pack for his wounded knee. “And what you did for Duo. It's scared the shit out of everyone else, too."

That surprised him. "What, the reactor? Why would it?"

"Most of these people jump at their own shadow," Barton muttered contemptuously. "People who work for revolutionaries tend to be paranoid. They all thought you'd lay down politely and die. Now they can't predict you."

He had only a harsh laugh in him. "Is it perverse that I'm pleased by that?"

"A little." Barton lapsed mute again. His fingers moved restlessly over the gel pack, as his eyes roved over Duo's body. "He say he loved you?"

It was probably inevitable that they would have this out. Barton was clearly chewing it over. It might have been Zechs who'd awed Noventa's crew with his actions, but Barton had risked himself, too, and his career and his friendship with Sally. And Zechs didn't kid himself that waiting outside the reactor had been any easier than waiting inside it.

"He hated my guts." It was an effort to get it out past the lump in his chest. He owed an honest assessment. "Hates."

"He fucked you an awful lot for hating you."

"He didn't do that out of love."

"Yes he does." Barton lapsed into a black frown. The stubborn jut of his jaw was so familiar Zechs had to look away. There was much of Duo in Barton's manners, these days. Or maybe more of Barton in Duo than he'd known. They really had been something to each other. "Maybe once. But he never goes back if there's not something behind it. He falls hard."

And never really got over anything, no matter what he pretended. Yes. Zechs knew that. And knew why Duo had resisted so hard what had been starting between them, beyond the sexual attraction, beyond the mutual temper, beyond their pasts-- until Zechs had pushed hard enough at a flimsy bond and shredded it.

"We have some substantial stumbling blocks between us," he said finally.

"I'm going to be one of them." Barton did not look at him. His eyes were locked on Duo's face. "Fair warning."

"You want him back in your life."

"However he'll take me."

"I don't mean to step aside for you, grateful or not."

"Ditto. That's all I'm saying."

"He's not a piece of property."

"No. He's my friend and he's been my lover and if we hadn't chickened out on each other we'd be more. I have years of history with him that you don't. All the pilots do. That means something."

"You're kidding yourself if you think I don't have as much history with all of you."

"No.” Now Barton looked at him, heat behind the rigidly still mouth, unblinking hazel eyes. “You're the one who's not in on the joke, Merquise. We fought you. We fought everything you represented. You made nice for Preventers, but you've hovered on the edges for years without making a real commitment. Duo's all about real."

"I won't defend myself to you." He set Duo's hand back in place beside his hip, leaving the fingers curled loosely to the sheet. "I don't have to. You don't know me at all. Not who I was or who I am now. Who I am now is someone in love with this man."

"He does that to people." Not much of a softening. But the agitation of the conversation was evidently too much for Barton. He flicked one of Duo's banana bags hanging from the monitors. "I'm going to change that,” he said brusquely. “Enjoy the quiet."

Alone again. With more to think about, and think, and think, until he was eating his own tail. Treize had loved the life of the mind, could sit alone for days and be perfectly fulfilled. Never Zechs. Not just that he'd preferred action over endless talk, though he always had. He detested the uselessness of hashing some topic to death when doing so brought no relief. Nothing would happen until Duo woke. The entire universe was stalled until Duo woke.

He rubbed the burn on his cheek and chin, then touched the back of his head. The spore blister was gone as if it had never been. But when he brought his hand away, a thick rasp of hair came with it. It had been happening for almost twenty-four hours. If it went on much longer, he'd have nothing left. With a sigh he wrapped the hair into a ball and dropped it into the waste bin beside the gurney.

A wad of fabric hit his elbow and rebounded to the floor. He bent for it. A cap; the kind of cheap cotton knit that one found in hospitals. Almost exactly the same appealing grey as one of Duo's protein shakes.

"Your head will get cold,” Barton said behind him. “It's not used to being naked."

"I'll adjust." He stood to tug it down over Duo's head instead. Duo's skin was papery. He tried not to notice that Duo's hair, too, came too easily separated from the scalp. He brushed it flat and made sure none clung to him as he retreated.

Barton had found the replacement bag. Zechs didn't know which soldiers had volunteered-- or been forced to volunteer-- so much blood for their consumption. Noventa's word was good that far, at least. Barton hung the bag and transferred the line to Duo's catheter. "He'll say the same thing. About the hair.” He touched it with just the back of his finger, then rested his hand against Duo's forehead. “It's okay to mourn it."

"It's a vanity I've treasured for too long."

"It's a symbol. Duo taught me about symbols." Barton let go with a soft exhale. "Going to talk to Sally."

"Is she speaking to you?"

"I've got a lot of history with her, too."

"Sally has a good head on her shoulders. Once she calms down, she'll forgive you."

"Once I apologise, I'll have earned it." He made a final press of Duo's shoulder. "He taught me that, too."

 

**

 

Under escort, he returned to his ship for a sleep cycle. It was a restless night. He could hear them moving, talking, yawning the hours away. After so long alone with just Duo on the ship, his nerves had him jumping at every little sound, even if Noventa's men did make a good effort to be quiet for him. He finally drifted in a solid three hours of REM, but still awoke tired and sandy-eyed.

He lost a double handful of hair to the shower, and collected it in his flannel for the bin. He couldn't bring himself to look in the mirror. He could feel bare patches-- large bare patches-- places that felt raw, but not burnt at least. He made the decision on impulse, but as soon as the razor was in his hand, all doubt vanished. He didn't even need a deep breath before he set the blade to his temple, and drew it back.

Barton was already at Duo's side when Noventa's men delivered Zechs to the clinic. Zechs ignored his raised eyebrows, taking the same seat he'd had the day before.

“Chic,” Barton said.

“Go to hell.”

“Sorry.” Barton's mouth made a minute grimace of annoyance before it smoothed. “Whatever. I didn't mean anything by it.”

“I'm sure.” No change in Duo. If he'd even shifted during the night, it didn't show. There wasn't even a wrinkle in his sheets. The radiation rash on his arms and hands seemed a little less painfully red, at least. “How's your leg?” he asked gruffly.

“Fine,” Barton said.

“It would be a pity if you limped for the rest of your life.”

“No-one cares about my potential limp.”

Zechs rolled his head on his shoulders, and rubbed the freshly shaved scalp at the back of his neck. “How's Duo, then.”

“No change.” Barton drummed his fingers on the chart he held on his lap. Unopened, but Zechs didn't doubt he'd been poring over it. He didn't look away from Duo's face.

"Should we have seen one by now?" Zechs asked him. “A change.”

"I don't know. I've never observed uncontrolled irradiation."

"But the radiation isn't our first concern."

"It's definitely stopped the spores. In both of you. But he was comatose before the reactor.” Barton's severe expression went even more still. “The longer it takes to come out of the coma, the worse his chances of recovery."

Even hearing it made his throat tight. "He's still fighting."

Barton shook his head minutely. "He's not anything." Suddenly he moved, launching out of his chair, tossing Duo's chart to the seat. Zechs watched him warily. "I'm going to talk to Matwari. We might get something out of aggressive narcotic therapy."

"Twenty-four hours ago we were allies.” Zechs didn't rise, did nothing challenging, but Barton reacted as if he had, stiff and thrumming with tension. “What happened?"

"You're the one with the history of changing sides."

He had a reaction of his own, then, but it passed indifferently. Arguing got them no-where, changed nothing. It wouldn't wake Duo. "I just want to help," he said neutrally. “That's all.”

"There's nothing to help with." Barton flexed his hands, then shoved them deep into his pockets. "Talk to him,” he added briefly. “Some people think coma patients can hear us."

Talk to Duo. It was easier to command it than to make it happen. Barton drew the curtain back for them, a little screen of privacy that lasted as long as it took for one of Noventa's men to call for eyeline. In their little bubble there was only the sound of the ventilator, the repetitive beeps of the monitors, the light breeze of air churning out above their heads. The kinds of sounds that could drive a man mad.

Talk to Duo. Zechs wet his lips, ran his thumb over a ragged fingernail on Duo's limp hand. “So,” he murmured softly. He pulled his chair closer to the gurney, his head even with Duo's, near his ear. “I'm not sure what to say. I don't think Barton believes you can really hear me. I hope so.” He wet his mouth again, searching for better words. “If I were a warmer man-- I'm not. I suppose that's obvious. Someone warmer would stretch out on the bed next to you, keep you safe. Make you feel me. You'd probably hate it. You can never stand being held. It makes me want to do it more.”

So much to think about. For maybe the first time in a decade, he missed Treize, the Treize who had been his friend and confidant, the Treize of his childhood who had seemed so wise and strong and right. Treize would have had the right advice. Treize might at least have told him he'd dug his own hole with Duo. Right to that moment in which he'd definitively lost Duo, by confessing what he'd known would, must, end their relationship-- his presence at Maxwell Church. Oh, yes, Treize would have understood that. He'd followed in Treize's footsteps almost exactly. Treize had guessed his identity years before he'd revealed himself to the world as the surviving heir of the Peacecraft dynasty and had gotten involved with Zechs anyway; or maybe because of what he'd guessed. He couldn't say it hadn't affected the web of decisions that had led to going to bed with Duo. Treize had known that the day would come when Zechs, when Milliardo, would have to leave OZ behind, and yet he'd done everything he could to keep Zechs with him, lied and tricked and controlled until it was impossible to stop it from happening. Zechs had known that one day Duo would have to be told the truth, and still he'd held it back, because he'd wanted Duo, and he'd been willing to pretend he deserved him.

He'd never reconciled with Treize. Treize's death had been an open wound he'd just ignored, hoping it would go away, a loss wrapped up in hurt and shame and hatred for things that maybe hadn't really been Treize's fault. If he lost Duo now, unreconciled, questions unanswered, that unresolved anger between them never forgiven, he didn't know if he would ever be a whole person again. Too many pieces would be gone and irretrievable.

Those were the words he wanted. He touched his forehead to Duo's cheek. "You're necessary,” he breathed. “You mustn't stop fighting."

Voices raised in an argument in the hall outside. Zechs looked up, recognising Barton's baritone. Two of the soldiers split off from the security station. Sally, at work at her console still, also disappeared through the door, and said something sharp and quelling. The arguing stopped, but no-one reappeared. Zechs shook his head at the distraction, hoping Barton wasn't getting himself into worse trouble with their none-too-happy new overlord.

When he turned back, Duo's eyes were open.

It took him several heartbeats to fully absorb that. Duo's eyes were open. “God,” he said, a thanks or a prayer, and shot out a hand to Duo's cheek. “You're awake. Duo.”

Duo's eyes went to him. No especial recognition, comprehension. For a horrible second, Zechs wondered if it was still the spores-- that waking sleep, nothing of Duo inside it. Then Duo breathed, breathed on his own, plucking at the endotracheal tube. He twisted his head to look at the ventilator, panic setting in suddenly and acutely.

"Don't fuss with it,” Zechs corrected him gently, drawing his hands away as they began to flail. “You need that. Needed. Barton!” He twisted himself, half standing as his mind leaped back to full awareness. “Barton, Sally! He's awake!”

A veritable stampede answered his shout. Not just the Preventers, but Lena Matwari as well, and just behind her came Noventa himself, a handful of his men arrayed at his back. He dispensed them on task with sharp orders that Zechs didn't listen to. Sally went straight to the monitors, and Zechs spared her a quick anxious glance as Barton bent over Duo, stethoscope finding the slit in Duo's gown to press to flesh.

“Arterial blood gas values are consistent,” Sally said over her shoulder. “PaO2 at sixty-two, PaCO2 normal.”

“Cardiovascular function stable,” Barton reported. He captured Duo's wrist firmly when Zechs lost hold of it, holding Duo's head in place. He spoke firmly, comfortingly. "You're in the clinic on Zebra Tango, Duo. You've had an infection, but we're taking care of you. I'm here."

“We should wait on extubation,” Matwari interrupted. “We don't know--”

“He's freaking out. Duo.” Barton was bodily holding Duo down, and Zechs contributed his strength by pressing on Duo's shoulders, keeping him in place on the gurney. “Sal, get me suction.”

“I want my objection on record,” Matwari said righteously. “It's too soon. The risk of having to re-intubate--”

“And if we don't do it now and he gets an oedema during his distress?”

“Duo.” Zechs slid back into place where he could be seen, taking Duo by the chin. “Listen to me. No-one can help you until you're calm.”

Whether it was just the commanding tone of his voice or that Duo was finally aware of himself, it worked. Duo stilled.

“That's good,” Sally praised him, leaning over with a reassuring smile. “Trowa, remember what we discussed. Step back. Step back,” she repeated, mildly, until Barton did, scowling deeply. “Doctor Matwari, if you'd prep for possible aerosolisation, and perform suction, I think we can try to extubate.”

It was painful to watch. Matwari inserted a new catheter through the tube, while Duo breathed slowly, deeply. Matwari stood by ready with an oxygen mask as Sally told Duo to cough, and yanked out the tube. But Duo kept coughing, unable to settle.

“There's ice chips,” Zechs said, grabbing for the cooler. He scooped with a paper cup and brought it back to the gurney. “Can he have these?”

“Great,” Barton said. He nicked them from Zechs' hand as smoothly as a pickpocket and stepped right in front of him to Duo's side. “There's ice chips, Duo. Here you go, swallow that. It'll help your throat.”

“Stats seem normal,” Sally observed. “Do you concur, Doctor Matwari?”

Zechs watched for her grudging nod. He thought she seemed a little miffed at having to give it, and silently wished her a long and unhappy life for wanting Duo to suffer just to prove her right. He walked wide around her to Sally's side of the gurney. “He's going to be all right?”

“It looks good.” Sally's relief was real, at least, and her smile restored his better humour. Yes. And hope. He smiled himself-- at least until he saw Barton tenderly stroking Duo's cheek.

Sally squeezed his shoulder. "Don't worry, Zechs," she said. "You'll get your time. He probably won't stay awake long. He'll be more aware over the next few days."

In actuality Duo didn't seem to be responding to Barton, not really. In fact, he hadn't really responded to Sally, either-- he'd been coughing before she told him to. He was looking around, but his eyes weren't focussed, didn't linger on anything. He seemed surprised by the spoon with the ice chips, each time, though Barton was talking at him constantly, trying to coax him along.

"Can he even hear us?" Zechs asked Sally. “This soon?”

She frowned at that. “His hearing shouldn't be affected. He might not be able to concentrate yet.” She moved closer to the gurney and waved; Duo's eyes followed her, though they skipped away after. Zechs watched her make a circle around the gurney, to the far side by the curtain, out of Duo's range. She clapped her hands loudly. Barton jumped, and Noventa's men-- but not Duo.

“Try again,” Noventa said suddenly. “Here.” He passed her a small mobile comm. “The top button.”

It emitted a piercing blast of sound that made everyone flinch. Except for Duo. He didn't even turn his head.

Barton abandoned the gurney. He shoved the ice chips into Zechs' hands and pushed past the soldiers toward the equipment pantry. Sally and Matwari were right behind him.

Noventa seemed as uncertain as Zechs. "He's deaf?" he asked tentatively. “Why would he be deaf?”

Deaf or not, Duo wouldn't be conscious long enough for further tests. His eyes were closing as if he couldn't keep them open. Zechs stroked his hair as his breathing evened out. He let out an explosive breath of his own. It was too much to process, and it had all taken barely ten minutes.

Duo had waked. That was something. That was everything. But he'd expected, wanted, the miraculous. This was not miraculous, this was... one more exhausting and demoralising event in a very long string of them.

Noventa, too, seemed to realise it was over. He dispersed his men with quiet instructions. "Agent Merquise,” he said then. “Perhaps we should leave the medical professionals to their work. Would you speak privately for a moment?"

There was nothing he wanted less. But refusing was patently futile. Noventa didn't have to ask him courteously. And he supposed he owed some return on Noventa's efforts to aid them. If Noventa wanted to talk, it was his turn to listen.

"I'll be back shortly," he announced, not that the doctors were listening. He repeated it, to Duo in a whisper, and left a kiss on his forehead. “Noventa,” he said, and gestured the man to precede him.

They went no further than the doorway. Noventa even stood so that Zechs would have a straight view of Duo, a kindness he acknowledged with a tight nod. “What did you want to speak about, may I ask?”

Noventa stood at parade rest, his arms clasped behind his back. What a life that man must have had, Zechs thought. How very much like his own. The finest military academies. Officership. And then suddenly the war had been over, the Alliance shattered, a Pacifist contract adopted by the new ESUN, obviating everything men like he and Noventa had ever stood for, ever been. Obliterating it. He at least had ducked complete obsolescence by joining the Preventers, a glorified police force, the occasionally underhanded, occasionally ugly dark side of Peace. If Noventa had spent the last ten years chewing his own gut and being goaded into open rebellion, then he'd had plenty of time to plan it down to the last details. Except for this.

"Now that Agent Maxwell is with us again,” Noventa understated, “I thought you might have some opinions on what ought to be done with him."

Some opinions? If there had been even a hint of a smirk in that he would have thrown a punch. As it was, he locked his jaw. "It looks as if it will be a long period of recuperation," he answered levelly.

"Agreed. Might I propose that he would be best served by a shorter trip to Mars Colony than a return to Earth space."

It took a moment to decide what might be meant by that. Zechs didn't for a moment believe it was purely consideration for Duo's health. "Are we under arrest?"

Succinctly, Noventa replied, "Not presently."

"Then we're free to go where we will?" he clarified.

"Within reason, yes."

He might throw that punch anyway. "So how is it anyone's decision but Agent Maxwell's and perhaps his physicians' what becomes of him?"

"I've heard much about both your intelligence and your temper, Agent Merquise. Just now, it would be much more sensible to display more of the former."

"Do I seem angry?"

"You aren't required to enjoy your situation." Now Noventa moved to block his line of sight, cutting him off from the clinic. Zechs squared his shoulders, pinning Noventa with his most intimidating stare, wishing he didn't feel so off his usual balance-- wishing he'd been allowed to dress in his uniform. "If you prefer to return to Mars with Agent Maxwell,” Noventa said, “you may. If you return to Earth, you do it with me."

"Excuse me?"

"Now that Agent Maxwell's health is assured, I will be returning to Earth with all due haste. Preventers are disbanded. You return with me, or you go quietly to Mars. Those are the choices."

"Are you offering me a job?" Zechs demanded coldly. "Because you're speaking like a politician."

"Unless you turn me down. That is also a choice, but it ends with incarceration on Earth. There's nothing I can do about that."

That was laughable. "I'll be traveling to Mars with Agent Maxwell."

"You have my word that Mars will not be cut off from necessary supplies shipments, but I warn you now that no-one on Mars Colony will be leaving for some time."

That paused him. He looked around Noventa; Duo was still asleep. "I think we should discuss this further outside." He didn't wait for Noventa's oh so polite half-bow-- he just went. His boot heels clicked on the floor with the force of his stride, and the hollow metallic echo gave him a bit of extra strength. He chose the middle of the corridor, equidistant from two stations of guards where neither he nor Noventa would have the upper hand. He about-faced crisply and grimly. Noventa came in one extra step. He was some three inches shorter than Zechs, but he held himself as if he were a foot taller. It might have been an unkind comparison, but Zechs couldn't help but think that his uncle Field Marshal Noventa had at least topped six feet. If Noventa spent less time trying to live up to his uncle's name and more time distinguishing himself as a feeling, breathing human being, it would have been a little easier to respect him. And that thought sobered him. He knew more than most about living up to a family name. They would gain nothing by sniffing around each other like two dogs competing for alpha role.

"We don't need threats,” he said clearly. “No matter how oblique. If you've got something to discuss, please do so."

"There is nothing to discuss, Agent Merquise. I don't owe you an equal share in this conversation. I'm telling you outright that if you choose to return to Mars, you do it as a private citizen under martial law. If you wish to return to Earth as a political prisoner, you will be accorded the rights granted by the Geneva Convention. But.” Noventa raised his chin. “If you join me, you have the opportunity to influence events."

So it really was a job. It might have been an expression-- however oblique-- of doubt about Noventa's relations with Ianto Cameron, if he wanted to call in unexpected allies, a name with more shock value than he could get from other quarters. It might have been just a gesture of what Barton claimed was Noventa's professional regard for him. They were, after all, men who were very alike. Treize wouldn't have handed second chances to old enemies. But Treize had never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Would he be a fool to throw away a chance to have any influence?

"I understand,” he said finally. “Thank you for clearing that up. Are we finished?"

"Yes." Noventa stood aside, that abruptly. Zechs hadn't really believed that would end it, but it seemed it had. He took a cautious step, then another. At the third, Noventa stopped him. "I'll want your answer by 2300," he said.

Zechs turned back. "I've already given you my answer."

Noventa rasped his knuckles over his bearded chin. He inclined his head.

"You expected something different?"

"You've never struck me as a man who puts his own needs first."

"I highly doubt the world needs another political prisoner."

"Then join me," Noventa repeated flatly.

"In what capacity?"

"I need a right-hand man I can trust."

"You can't trust me."

"Then return to Mars where you can affect nothing at all."

"You don't know that, Noventa."

"Some men are born to change the course of events. But you still have to choose to do it."

He retraced those three steps, bringing him back to Noventa, bringing the soldiers at suspicious attention of his intent. He spoke in a low voice, to prevent them hearing him. "You make the assumption that I'll do nothing but languish on Mars,” he told Noventa. “That's both careless and dangerous."

Noventa's icy eyes dismissed him. "And what precisely will you do there with no mobile suits and no shuttles?"

"There are many ways of affecting change,” he warned. “Not all of them involve violence."

"Then nothing you'd be overly familiar with.” There. A job offer-- not a truce. Noventa definitely did not like him. “Go,” the other man said, with absolutely no inflection in his voice. “Agent Maxwell will be wanting to see you."

His blood was too high to return directly to a bedside where he'd have nothing to do but sit and wait. He trusted Noventa's offer about as far as he could toss the man who'd made it. He'd had more than enough of serving men he couldn't trust. But what balls for Noventa to so much as ask him! Ask-- as if it were even a preferable option. If he joined Noventa he'd be dead before the month was out. He'd be far too high profile not to attract assassin's bullets. And if Cameron didn't have him assassinated, he'd be trying to turn Zechs to his own advantage, and the circle of bribery and threats would never end. He knew better than anyone what happened when you conspired to betray.

Betray. No. That was it. Noventa was turning on Cameron, and he wanted someone who would signal to those disbanded Preventers that he was the better bet than Cameron. Zechs would make a very fine and very visible offering. Join me and have at least a little influence.

And yet. There was no better way to get a man inside Noventa's team than to have him invited in.

He stopped at the end of the hall, staring in at the clinic door. Duo was still out. The doctors were conferencing busily, and didn't look ready to break any time soon.

Zechs caught the attention of one of Noventa's guards. “Take me back to my ship,” he said.

 

**

 

It was deep into the station's night cycle when he emerged again. Noventa's men had let him exercise, closely watched, though his meal had come from one of them and he'd had to eat supervised as well. They at least let him shower alone. The nausea seemed a little better, but the open sores at his mouth still stung. He rubbed his hand over his shaved head, and didn't feel even the growth of stubble. With a deep breath, he left to dress.

He was unsurprised to find Barton already there in the clinic. It was possible he'd never left. Sally's prohibitions did not seem to have lasted long. He nudged the back of Barton's chair before rolling a stool away from the consoles to the gurney.

“He's vomiting,” Barton said. He had a day's shadow of beard growing in, reddish shades that only made the deep shadows around his eyes more pointed. “Started a few hours ago. High fever.”

“What about his hearing.”

“It's probably the auditory nerve. Most of the tests we can't do here, or at least not until he's orientated and responsive.” Barton rubbed slowly at his knee. “It could just be the coma. A lot of coma patients have long-term problems.”

Another wrinkle to think about. His head was getting overly full.

Well, he could purge some of it at least. He scratched at the itching rash on his arms, and jumped in feet-first. "Noventa offered me a position."

Barton looked him head on for once. "What's the punchline?"

"I'm not sure. But it might be important to find out."

Barton's mouth twisted as he chewed the inside of his cheek. He returned his gaze to Duo. "His people are packing. If you're leaving, it's early tomorrow. His pet doctor's the only one who's putting up fuss about whether Duo's safe to sign off clear."

"His pet doctor probably works for Cameron." If Matwari's job really was to delay Noventa as long as possible, she'd managed at least a few minor tweaks. But Noventa wouldn't stay behind if both Sally and Barton gave the go-ahead. "I want to know what's going on,” he said finally. “Why the Preventers were such a threat we had to be dismantled. This can't be allowed to stand."

"And you're singlehandedly going to bring it falling down from the inside? Not likely."

"No, but it'd be better than what we've got now."

"I've had that thought before,” Barton said. “And the only reason we're all still alive today is that there was a Preventers still operating to bring down Mariemaia's Army."

He'd almost forgotten that. Barton had gone undercover-- not quite successfully, as he recalled the tale. Or Dekim Barton hadn't, in the end, cared enough about the old grudge of his son's death when greater vengeance was just at hand through his granddaughter. As, he supposed, Noventa had decided he didn't care as much about his uncle's murder as he did about whatever was going on now that required Zechs at his side.

"Maybe there are enough Preventers left alive to re-form," he said.

"Without mobile suits,” Barton added. “Without Gundams."

"Maybe. Maybe not."

"If you didn't want me to argue you down, what did you want me to do? I'm fresh out of cake and streamers, so your good-bye party's going to be low-key."

He told himself Barton just needed to take his shots, but he gave himself a moment to keep a rein on his temper. "I'm asking if I can count on you when the time comes."

"To do what exactly? Fight?” Barton arched a brow at him. “I won't promise that."

"To do whatever is necessary. You used to be good at that."

"What's necessary might be keeping my head down and making sure Duo keeps his down. And if that's the case, you can be damn sure I'll be doing that and not backing you up on some insane last stand."

That, Zechs decided, was close enough. "I expected nothing less."

Barton seemed to agree. He snorted softly to himself as if he'd just confirmed something trivial. "Don't write him a note. He hates notes."

"I'd rather not leave him behind at all,” Zechs answered moodily. “It's been done before and he never survives it completely. That's a sticking point. You know?"

Barton scrubbed his face with both hands and let his head fall back to the chair rung. "You're still leaving. So face up to it."

"I don't have a lot of choice."

"Tell it to him." Barton rose. He kicked his chair back toward the console. “Night.”

Face up to it. There was some truth in that. He appeared to have made a decision without consciously acknowledging it. It was time for an honest assessment. What he needed to--

“Barton,” he started, but it was too late. Barton was already gone. So he covered Duo's wrist himself, then wrapped their hands together. “Duo?” he said, before he remembered. Instead he put his palm on Duo's chest, over his heart. “Duo. It's all right. You're safe.”

Duo's head had rolled toward him. He scrunched his nose, his eyelids fluttering. Zechs didn't know how to read the monitors, but there were no alarms, no blips that seemed foreboding. “Wake up, Duo. You're all right.”

Duo kicked a little, a sudden movement that startled Zechs. But then Duo was opening his eyes. Zechs stood, leaning over the gurney. Duo blinked slowly up at him.

"Hi," he said.

Duo's mouth moved, soundlessly. He blinked again, as if it took great effort. He looked to either side of him, taking in the clinic. He looked back at Zechs for confirmation.

"You're in the infirmary on Zebra Tango.” What else to say? How much had Duo understood before? “You're very ill,” he said. “But you're improving. You're getting better. It's good you're awake."

Duo freed a hand from his sheet. He rubbed his ear. He coughed, but before Zechs could go for the ice again, Duo actually spoke. Zechs' heart seized in his chest at the sound. "What happened?" Duo whispered roughly.

He felt wild hope then. Just the act of speech, just those two words opened up the impossibility of-- recovery. It was real. "You were infected,” he managed. “We both were-- the treatment was rather extreme. Can you-- hear me?"

He thought it was stupid until Duo abruptly answered him. "Can't hear you," Duo croaked. Still rubbing his ear. A faint frown creased his forehead. “Something wrong.”

He made sure Duo could see his face when he spoke. "You were very ill. But you're mending."

Comprehension. He could actually see it as Duo understood him. Yes. Mending. Duo nodded. Duo looked at his monitors again, the oximetre on his finger, the central line catheter that stretched from his collar to his the IV tower. "Get up?” he asked vaguely. “Back hurts."

He had no idea if Duo was all right to get out of bed. Noventa's guards were far enough away not to hear the disturbance, and he selfishly wanted this time to himself, not shared with the crowd. That decided him. "I can help you sit. Come on."

Duo was still frail. He was barely a weight in Zechs' arms. He lifted Duo from the bed and into his chair, keeping it near with his ankle as he settled Duo into it. Duo shivered as soon as he was out of the bed, thin limbs shaking. Zechs ripped the blanket off the bed and wrapped it around him, rubbing his arms gently, then crouching to rub his bare legs and ankles. “Is this all right? Duo?”

Duo huddled in the blanket. Looking anxiously at him Zechs wasn't sure he really did comprehend where he was, but he was trying. "Zebra Tango?” Duo asked him tentatively. “The deep space station?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"It was the nearest place with a medical unit. Sally met us here. And Barton." He cradled Duo's feet between his hands, warming them with his skin. "You were dying," he said, almost steadily.

He wasn't sure Duo followed that, either. "I'm thirsty," was his only response.

He found another cup and scooped it full of ice. He offered the spoon without thinking, but Duo only stared at it. He gathered a few chips in the bowl and held the spoon to Duo's lips until he swallowed. "Slowly. Like that."

Duo took three more spoonfuls before he pushed Zechs' hand away. He rubbed his ear again, but he seemed more alert every minute. "We were on a shuttle."

"Yes.” He brought Duo's feet back into his lap. “We were going to Mars. Mission, delivering medical equipment. You'll-- you'll continue on there as soon as you're stable."

Duo's head made a wobbly path down to stare at him. He said, "You're going somewhere else."

He should have called the doctors. He just wasn't sure how much Duo really understood him. And they would want, need to confirm what he was seeing, that Duo couldn't hear him. "I haven't decided,” he answered belatedly. “I hoped to ask you." He stroked Duo's frigid toes. "We're at war,” he said, wondering if it was even relevant. “Noventa, he offered me a position."

Maybe irrelevant, but it caught Duo's attention more firmly than anything else had. "War?” Duo repeated. “How long was I out?"

"Weeks. I--” He'd lost track, actually. The days ran together. “I was ill as well."

"War?" Duo's head tilted dizzily, and he rested it on his shoulder. "Where's Heero?"

It was ridiculous. He knew it was ridiculous, but it still stung, to hear Duo ask for someone else. "Nobody knows,” he replied huskily. “The Preventers have been disbanded."

Duo's eyes were drifting closed. “Tired.”

“Sleep.” He cleared his throat as he stood. He lifted Duo back onto the gurney. “I'll be back tomorrow. We'll talk more.” He tucked the sheet back into the foot of the bed and drew it over Duo. Duo's eyes were only slitted, barely open, but Zechs cupped his cheeks and kissed his mouth, carefully and gently. “I love you,” he said clearly, hoping Duo could read his lips. “I love you, Duo.”

Duo's lips moved, but he didn't know what words they were speaking. He covered Duo with the blanket, and turned away. Deep breaths. Deep breaths.


	11. Eleven

Duo woke when he felt the sheet move over his feet.

It was Trowa. Trowa smiled at him-- Trowa. Smiled. That was odd.

Duo cleared his throat; he was froggy. And achey. And itchy. What the hell had they been doing? He didn't have any clear memories to call on to answer that, which sort of indicated it had been crazy shit. They were getting too old for weekend benders. And since he appeared to be laying in a hospital gurney, they were definitely too old for acrobatic weekend benders.

Trowa tucked the sheet over Duo's feet, and sat on the mattress next to them. Looking straight into Duo's eyes, he leaned in and moved his lips. How you doing? he mouthed. You feeling okay? Stomachache?

Oh. Yeah, definitely. And he was fucking freezing. He shivered on realising it, and Trowa covered his feet with warm hands, rubbing gently. I'll get another blanket, Trowa mouthed at him, and was gone only a moment. He settled a thick folded sheet over Duo's legs. You thirsty?

'Yeah.' He could barely speak. His throat was sore. Trowa had a solution for that, too, coming at him with a spoon of something syrupy. It didn't seem to have much taste, but that was fine. It did help with swallowing. Duo got a cup of water for his reward, and he tried to pretend his hand wasn't shaking. Trowa let him have it, but scooted closer on the bed. He opened his mouth, but Duo pre-empted him. 'Why aren't you talking aloud? Did you drink a habanero tequila shot again on a dare?'

Trowa smiled again. Now Duo was getting concerned. That was more smiling than Trowa did in entire years. Duo fumbled his elbows under him, and got about six inches upward before Trowa firmly-- but gently-- pushed him back onto his pillows. Duo glared at him. Or would have, except he was cold and stomachachey and itchy. So he let Trowa take back the water and tuck him in and hold the cup to his lips.

Possibly more serious than a wild night out. And Trowa hadn't answered his question.

'Where are we?' he asked. 'Where-- where--' That was weird. He rubbed his ears. 'Where is--'

Trowa caught his hand. He held it-- gently-- and that was the moment Duo knew.

'What's wrong with me,' he said.

Trowa dropped his eyes. He stroked Duo's hand, and his shoulders moved up and then down, as if he'd let out a big deep breath. Duo didn't hear it. He didn't hear anything. Not his own breathing. Not anything.

There was a problem with your mission, Trowa's lips said. Duo read them, squinting to focus. You were infected. Do you remember any of that?

No. There was a big blank-- maybe. 'We were on a ship?' he ventured, or tried to, because he couldn't hear himself, either, and that was weird to experience. He licked his dry lips. 'I was. No, we. Who is we?'

Zechs Merquise. He's here, too.

'He's sick?'

Not as badly as you were. You were deliberately infected. We don't know the whole story yet. But it's connected to something happening on Earth. Trowa finally met his eyes again. There was a coup on Earth. Ianto Cameron. Do you know the name?

Cameron. It felt familiar. Hesitantly he shook his head. 'What's a coup...' It was too strange, not to hear his own voice. Trowa put the water to his lips, and he swallowed automatically. Feeling awkward, he decided to just forgo speech. He wasn't the only one who could read lips, and he didn't like the disadvantage. Then, too, that word, coup; it meant dark things, things he and Trowa knew all too much about, and what he didn't know he could fill in, couldn't he. Strange hospital. A mission with Zechs Merquise. A shuttle, he remembered a shuttle, and a shuttle meant Mars, these days, and Duo Maxwell and Zechs Merquise on a shuttle to Mars sounded like the opening line of a very grim joke. Coup.

So he moved his lips, and trusted Trowa to follow him. He mouthed, 'We're at war, aren't we.'

Trowa inclined his head a precise inch.

All right. All right.

He inhaled. Good enough for a start. 'Why don't I remember. Why can't I hear you. What was this-- infection.'

He didn't hear the approach, the footsteps, the conversation when Trowa suddenly turned his head. Caught by surprise, he fumbled it. Sally was standing right there on the other side of his bed. He hadn't even noticed her coming. And she was talking, he thought, but the angle was wrong, and he couldn't read her lips. Trowa twisted, and then was standing. Sally had his chart, and she tapped his knee for his attention, as if he wasn't trying to get her to effing look him in the eye already.

Good morning, she said, with a bright determined smile. Trowa says you're up and about today.

'Whatever today is.' Without hearing himself the words felt wrong, as if he couldn't form them right in his mouth. It took too much concentration, to both think of what wasn't working and think of what had to. 'My brain is fuzzy,' he muttered, and dropped his head back on his pillow.

Sally shifted around to bring a stool toward his gurney. She tapped his knee again, and he glared. Trowa, coming up behind her, compressed his lips down. Um, Sally said, or it looked like some monosyllabic not-apology. Duo braced himself. Are you hungry? she asked. It's a little early for solids, but we can hook you up with a very tasty banana bag.

'If you want to run tests, run tests.' He officially gave up on getting any information in the next ten hours, and closed his eyes on all of them. Sally tapped his knee again, and he gritted his teeth. 'What?'

You get five minutes to be grumpy, she said, and this time there was no sunny smile, only a raised eyebrow that promised punishment if he didn't obey. You scared the shit out of us. You don't have to like it, Duo, but we're going to do everything we can to help you. Am I clear?

That'll learn you, Trowa mouthed, and took off to get a kit.

 

**

 

The station was a bustling place, by morning. Noventa's men were moving out all the equipment they'd brought in, and there was a certain level of noise coming from the bowels of the reactor that Zechs took to be bad news, for whoever would need it in the future. On the other hand, Zechs was already more than ready to see the back of Zebra Tango. He couldn't say he would miss it.

On the third hand-- if Noventa were ready to be leaving, that meant that Zechs had to be ready, too. For whatever decision he made. And the deadline to make it was rapidly approaching.

His morning had begun with stress and the level was climbing. Duo was awake before he was, and he got no access. The medical team had him surrounded, and Matwari shooed him away before he even made it past the outer curtain. Barton didn't appear to be doing all that much better; in the brief time Zechs stayed to watch, Barton caught scoldings from both other doctors for trying to handle medical equipment, and was finally banished to washing catheters. Zechs tried not to be overly brightened by that circumstance. It wasn't particularly worthy of him. Nor was his decision not to tell the doctors that he'd spoken with Duo, even brought him out of bed, the night before. He might have told them, but after being ordered in no uncertain terms to scat, he just kept it to himself and left.

The radiation rash was worse again, red and raw. On Matwari's advice he showered in tepid water only, diluted his soap by half, and dried himself carefully with the softest cloth he could find. The itch was maddening. He chose long sleeves from his luggage, a simple tunic that folded across the chest and offered no buttons or zips to add irritation. His grooming took barely a third of the time he normally alloted, even with those extra precautions. He had no hair to dry and brush, no beard to shave. Even his eyebrows had vanished, and his eyelashes. His face was curious, alien, without those familiar features. Almost a deathmasque.

He dallied as long as he could in an empty shuttle, but ultimately his own impatience got the best of him. He wanted to see what was going on. And he wanted to speak to Duo. Their conversation, such as it had been, felt unfinished, and if Duo were awake, and perhaps more coherent, they might need to repeat some of what they'd said the night before. He didn't want to leave without confirming that Duo knew he was going, and where. And... good-byes should be said properly.

And with that he acknowledged to himself that he already knew what decision he'd made. He'd be leaving with Noventa. He didn't want to be trapped on Mars, unable to affect the coming war. The war that was already being fought. If he could find Une, if he could somehow convince Noventa to un-disband Preventers, then he'd have allies enough to turn the tide of conflict. He wanted Duo to understand, and agree, and send him off with a clear conscience.

They might never see each other again. If he went to Earth, his life was surely in danger. But if he went to Mars, they might all be, and they'd never know until Cameron arrived with weapons enough to wipe out a tiny, unarmed colony. A colony that was going to have Duo on it.

When he entered the station again, there was less movement. Noventa's men were gathered at their original security stations, engaged in quiet briefings. Zechs spied Noventa himself amongst them, and waited to catch his eye. At first Noventa seemed to dismiss him, but Zechs simply moved into his line of sight again. Noventa frowned the distance at him, and nodded once. Content that they would speak soon, Zechs left him at it.

The tests in the infirmary seemed to have run their course, and now Matwari and Sally stood on either side of Duo's bed, peppering him with questions. Zechs watched long enough to determine that the results weren't pleasing to anyone. Zechs helped himself to the tea that was brewing on a hotplate in the corner, and poured a second cup as well. There was a waterglass at Duo's bedside, which meant he was allowed fluids, and tea would be more welcome than plain water. There was no milk, of course, but someone in Noventa's group must have brought them the small supply of freeze-dried lemon. Zechs used it gratefully.

Duo was watching for him when he twitched open the curtain. Zechs allowed himself cautious hope at that. Duo flinched when Matwari leant over him with a scope to poke in his ear, and the look he cast at Zechs was equal parts desperation and doom. Zechs hid a smile.

He cleared his throat, and did it again when no-one paid him any mind. Sally's head came around, and Matwari followed her reaction.

Zechs lifted the cups he held. 'He can have tea?' he asked.

'Not caffeinated,' Matwari began, and Zechs interrupted politely.

'Mint,' he said, 'and not boiling.'

'That sounds fine.' Sally beckoned him near. 'And how are you doing today? Nausea? Anything worse than nausea?'

No, and he didn't deserve that amount of luck, if he was going to be stuck in a mobile suit for a long flight back to Earth, shortly. He shook his head. Sally let him get away with it. He placed one of the mugs on the rolling table positioned over Duo's knees, nudging the chart out of the way for it.

Sally spared him fishing for it, and simply provided him what he wanted to hear. 'No hearing,' she said. 'Too soon to tell if it's neurological or if there's been some kind of genetic deterioration from the spores. If you give your permission, I'd like to draw a sample from you as well, for further study.'

'Yes, of course.' He found a spot to stand near Duo, out of the way, but near enough to lend support. Duo had submitted to Matwari's examination, but he was clearly on edge. 'Anything else?'

'He seems to have lost some vision. We did a basic acuity test and he missed more than his file ever recorded before. Again, hard to tell if that's something that will pass or can be corrected. When we get him to Mars, he'll need glasses. Some inflammation of the oesophagus and gums. But he's alert. He complained of, quote, “fuzziness”, but I think we can safely say that's the coma and just missing out on what was going on as he grew more ill. He's out of immediate danger.'

That was a deep relief. He tried hard to keep expression from his face, but he gave himself away with a shaky breath. Sally squeezed his elbow.

'What's that?' she asked, nodding at his hands.

The book. Noventa's men had returned it the night before, apparently convinced it was harmless. 'We were reading it together,' Zechs answered. 'I would like for him to have it. I don't know if-- he'll be able to. But it came to be very important for both of us.'

'That's a kind thought.' She tilted it to the light. 'What language is that? Russian? That's right; you said you were teaching him.'

'Could I have a moment with him?' he asked then. 'His tea is getting cold. Maybe we could give him a few minutes.'

Sally blinked up at him. 'Oh. Of course.' She waved for Duo's eyes, and said, 'We'll dig on the computer. See if there's something we're missing. You want to lie down?'

Zechs was already anticipating Duo's forceful, and quite loud, 'No!' The scuffles and hustle outside the infirmary paused for a moment, and restarted reluctantly. Sally pursed her lips, but Zechs thought it was only to hide a smile.

Zechs made his own diffident contribution. 'Perhaps just a little break from doctors prodding him, hm?' he murmured.

Barton's flat affect spoke volumes of suspicion. Zechs met it with as mild a look as he could. But Sally rose, and Matwari was following, so Trowa went trailing after.

Duo peevishly threw his ice chips at the bin. He missed, and the cup rebounded off the rim, scattering flecks of water all over the floor. Zechs tossed a towel over the mess, but made no effort to clean it up. He hesitated over the book, and finally set it aside on the bedside table. He took the stool Sally had abandoned, and sat. 'Help any?' he asked.

Duo scratched at the vivid rash on his cheek, until Zechs reached to stop him. Duo's hands clenched into pointy-knuckled fists under his palms. 'What?' Zechs asked him. 'Tell me.'

Duo fixed him with a hard-eyed stare. 'How bad am I?' he demanded bluntly.

Already his voice sounded different. Hollow, and clipped, as if he were biting off the ends of the words. If he never regained his hearing, he'd lose that signature flippancy, that edgy habit of verbally disgracing his opponents with a sharp turn of phrase. But he was alive.

Zechs felt Duo's hands twitch, and released him slowly. 'You nearly died,' he said honestly, 'from the initial infection. The bacteriophages didn't work fast enough, and there's no way of knowing if they'd have saved you. The radiation... we don't know. It was an uncontrolled exposure. It may have stopped the infection, but the long range effects could be devastating.'

And more alert, yes, than even last night. Then Zechs had been unsure if Duo really knew where he was; now he was sure. Duo's eyes followed the movement of his lips, and the tendons of his jaw flexed and stood hard by the end of Zechs' recitation. But he didn't ask anything more. He didn't fight it or try to deny it. He accepted it, internalised it.

Zechs wet his lips. 'Duo,' he said, and wasn't sure what he meant to add. He sipped his tea, and put it aside. 'Duo, I-- I may have killed you by taking you in that reactor.'

That earned, at last, a flicker of shock. 'I don't understand,' Duo said slowly.

'You were dying.'

Duo shook his head. To clear it, not to contradict him. 'And this is about the war,' he said. 'Preventers.'

'Drink your tea.' He waited for Duo to do as he was told. When the cup touched Duo's lips, Zechs answered him. 'This infection wasn't accidental. You and I were chosen. And purposely infected.'

There was no temper to greet that. He'd almost expected it. But it was an interesting thing, a strangely sad thing, to think that the Duo who'd been his constant companion for five months was not, perhaps, the Duo who had been before they'd been infected. Or might not be the Duo who was left behind, after this awful illness.

So no temper. Duo accepted that as he'd accepted the news about his condition, letting it settle into place with no further comment. No argument, as there had been on board their ship when they'd first been discussing the possibility. No railing against Une or Preventers. No despair, even.

Zechs filled the silence, though Duo's eyes only came to his mouth when Duo realised he was still speaking. 'We were just important enough,' he said, explained, perhaps just to hear his own voice. 'Or infamous enough. For our deaths to make an impact. We were meant to die. If not in space, then on Mars.'

Duo sipped his tea again. 'So who are all the people here?'

'The woman working with Sally is Doctor Lena Matwari. A specialist in epidemics, I think. Trowa and Sally came when we called for help, and appear to have just escaped a lock-down on Mars. The men... they work for Horatio Noventa. Ultimately, for Ianto Cameron.'

'Trowa said that name too.' Duo shook his head again, twitched a thumbnail over his rash, and deliberately put his own hands out of risk. 'I want to walk around. Will they let me?'

Last night he wouldn't have been capable. He seemed stronger this morning. Strong enough? Duo's eyes were begging. Zechs crumbled.

'They don't have to know,' he whispered. 'Let me help you.'

Duo was already flinging his sheets aside. Zechs helped remove them, and tried to find the best way to negotiate Duo's trip down from the gurney. Duo did seem stronger, and one of the doctors had taken care of the problem of the cold air by dressing Duo in leggings and stockings beneath his gown. Zechs did wrap him up in a blanket, and Duo hugged it close, but he kept on his own feet when he landed on the tile. Zechs pretended not to notice how Duo sagged against his arm, but privately decided they wouldn't be going far. Just far enough to taste a little freedom. He did tilt Duo's face up to his, and said, 'It won't help if you push too fast. You're going to have to trust me.'

Duo succumbed to that with no protest. He really was different. Zechs tried not to feel a pang. Alive was the only state that mattered.

They couldn't go far without being seen. Zechs kept Duo within the screened area, but they paced it slowly, with Duo's fist gripping his shirt, and his own hands tucked as carefully as he could to Duo's heaving ribcage. They made two rounds on the circumference before Duo spoke again, so low Zechs almost didn't hear him.

Duo said, 'They're going to tell me this is permanent, aren't they.'

Duo's face stayed turned down. Zechs didn't answer. Duo already knew.

Zechs called a halt to their journey when he felt Duo's knee go out. He pulled a chair near, and set Duo into it, and pulled the rolling stool near for himself. Duo wiped his nose on his arm; his hand shook.

'You're bald,' he observed finally.

Zechs nodded. 'Radiation. You're losing yours as well.'

Immediately Duo grabbed for his braid. His stricken expression was painful. Zechs looked anywhere else but at him. 'I'm sorry. But-- You're alive. It will grow again.'

Both of Duo's hands were shaking. He pulled his braid over his shoulder, clutching it near. 'All of it?' he asked hoarsely.

'Probably, yes.' He had to raise his head to repeat it. 'Prob--' He gave himself a moment to breathe. 'Probably.'

He had time to wonder if he ought to call for Sally or even Barton. Someone who could offer better comfort. He'd thought brutal honesty was better, that it was what Duo wanted, needed from him, but now he was unsure. There was such a thing as too much truth, and that one could have waited. Duo would have noticed for himself, soon enough.

But Duo came to his own conclusions, as he always did. Haltingly, he said, 'I want to do like you. Don't want to wait for it all to-- to--'

Zechs managed a nod. 'Are you sure?'

'No. Yeah. Yeah. Before Trowa comes back. He'll argue with me. We always argue.'

'He cares about you.' The way Duo was shaking, he couldn't sit much longer. Zechs didn't wait for his own argument. He lifted Duo with one arm under the knees and the other at his shoulders, and carried him the short distance to the bed. 'I'll get clippers,' he said, and covered Duo's legs with the blankets again. He ransacked the drawers nearby, and tore open a plastic bag that held surgical instruments. Not as good as proper cutting scissors, but the small blades were sharp when he tested them against his thumb. He returned to Duo's side. 'Are you sure? We don't... we don't have to do this.'

Duo's eyes came up to his, dry as ever. Zechs traced the bare ridge of his brow. 'I don't want it to go piece by piece,' Duo breathed, and Zechs nodded.

The cotton cap shed loose hairs already. Zechs dropped it to the pillow behind Duo's head, so he wouldn't have to see it. Even at his tender touch, locks came loose, caught only for the moment in the plait. If he was careful, it would survive whole. He brought Duo's head low, until Duo's forehead rested on his chest. He rubbed Duo's thin shoulders for a moment, apology and warning in one. 'I'm sorry,' he said, knowing Duo couldn't hear him, and gathered a thick strand between his fingers. He cut, close to the scalp, and brushed it back. The next segment he chose from the temple, and then beside that, and finally just made it straight, following the hairline from ear to ear, and then working his way back. It took a torturous five minutes, the clippers snipping a quarter-inch at a time. When he felt the braid begin to fall, he cushioned it down, and tugged it gently free. It fell back against his knuckles like a limb being severed. Duo pulled it from his hold, cradling it in his lap. Zechs ran a palm over Duo's stubbled head, and kissed it. Duo hiccoughed soflty.

Zechs found the cap, and pulled it back on him. 'I've been promising myself it'll grow back,' he began, and couldn't finish.

'Yeah.' Duo clenched his fists hard, and then they went limp. 'No time.'

'Exactly.'

He'd been trying to hold himself back. Any thought of that flew out of his head. He ignored Duo's resistance and kissed him. He heard a sharp inhale, but Duo's wrists were too fragile to pull free from him, and he only pressed it for a moment.

And anyway, Barton had his own radar. Zechs let go when the curtain came wrenching back.

Barton stared at him angrily. 'Did you have him out of bed? He's not ready. You'll delay his recovery if you keep on--'

Zechs almost stepped back, and then decided not to. The clock was ticking down his remaining time. And he would have that time on his own terms. Barton would have plenty of hours alone with Duo to get whatever he wanted, but not before Zechs had his. 'Give us a moment, please.'

Barton noticed the hair, then. His outrage went from potential to dead rage. His voice went almost to a whisper, his spine snapping straight. 'What did you do.'

Zechs repeated himself firmly. 'A moment, please.'

'What did you do to him.' Barton couldn't shoulder him out of the way, not if Zechs didn't want to be moved, but he pulled at Duo from the back, not quite daring to touch the braid, but sliding off the cap instead. 'God. Duo. Did he ask you--'

'Barton. Now.'

Barton's head snapped up. It might have gone to blows, it had that feel about it. Zechs was bunching his shoulders, ready to defend himself or something more. But Duo stopped it. His fingers at Barton's chin defused the tension. Barton retaliated, but it was a small, almost petty revenge. He bent for his own kiss, a quick brush of his lips over Duo's. Then he stalked away, throwing the curtain wide and leaving it that way.

'Damn it,' Zechs muttered. He rolled his head on his shoulders, and held his breath until the head in his face found somewhere else to be. He made sure Duo was looking at him, and said clearly, 'Forgive me. I didn't mean to start that.'

Duo dropped back to his pillows. 'Why do I feel like I just fell into the middle of some bad blood?'

'Not dropped-into. You just weren't awake for a lot of it.' Zechs rested cautiously on the edge of Duo's bed. 'I'm pushing you. I shouldn't have. The hair could have waited.'

Duo's fingers trembled, touching the braid. 'It is what it is.'

'It's one more piece of your past I've robbed you of.' He took Duo's hands again, this time as gently as he could. 'You scared me so much, Duo.'

Already the shape of his face looked different, without his hair. His eyes seemed paler, more sunken, his neck so-- bare. But he said, 'I don't feel almost dead. Just kind of crappy.'

Zechs let out a bark that was meant to be a laugh. 'You're definitely looking better than you were.' He turned Duo's inner wrist to the light, to stroke it with his thumb. Duo's skin was papery and dry. 'We have a decision to make.'

'We do? About what?'

'We can't stay on this station for long. They'll send us to Earth, or Mars. And soon. This morning.'

'Oh.' Duo's hands were cold, and Zechs warmed them between his own. Duo let him, but his hands were limp, now, except for the tremors. 'Where are you going to go?'

Zechs hesitated, wondering how to answer that very reasonable question. 'I was hoping to follow you.'

'I don't think I know where I'm going.'

'Trowa is going to Mars.'

Duo's forehead creased, and smoothed. 'Probably I should go with him, then. He's my doctor.'

He wasn't making his point, and he was wasting time. Brutal honesty it was, then, and Duo would forgive him or not. 'Is there a chance for us, Duo?' he asked bluntly. 'You're speaking to me again, at least. After everything, I-- I'm going to consider that a good sign.'

'Why wouldn't I speak to you?' Duo said. 'You saved my life.'

That startled him. Was Duo offering a peace flag? Or had he somehow-- of all the memories to lose. It had been right before the last, worst stage of their infection, and perhaps-- but Duo had seemed plenty coherent for it. But if he had forgotten it, was it just another cruel swipe to bring it up again? And right after shearing him of that other, most important reminder. Symbol. Duo was a walking contradiction, sometimes, but not when it came to that hair. Because it's mine, that was one of the first things Duo had said to him, and it might be the truest he'd ever spoken.

But if Duo remembered on his own, it would be a double betrayal. The original blow, and the lie to cover it, even if it was only a lie of omission.

He already had Duo's gaze, puzzled pale eyes. Zechs swallowed, and said, 'We fought before you became ill.'

Duo blinked once. 'What about?'

'My presence at the Maxwell Church Massacre.' It was both easier and not, to confess it all over again. Duo only sat there, not reacting, but for the line between his eyes going ever so slightly deeper. 'I was there. As a cadet. It was the worst day of my life, and... I know it was the worst day of yours.'

Duo's eyes widened. They went unfocussed, away from Zechs, but that was it. No other reaction. Had he pushed too hard? Gone too fast? Last night Duo hadn't even been coherent, when he'd kept Duo up this long. But he had to say it now, because there wasn't time. He could hear Noventa's men out there. The electric hum of ships being brought back to full power.

'I'm sorry,' Zechs said.

Duo's lips parted, for a shaky inhale. That, at least, was emotion Zechs could recognise. He tightened his grip on Duo's hands.

'I believe you,' Duo said.

It was all Zechs could do to nod. He let Duo go, and pushed to his feet. He went no further than the gurney he'd been occupying, only days earlier. It was bare now, stripped of sheets, and the plastic mattress crinkled under his weight. He only sat for a moment, suddenly restless. It had almost been better, Duo's condemnation and anger and loss. That had felt real. This didn't, not really.

Duo's voice followed his prowl around the infirmary. He said, 'So, if I go to Mars, you'll come?'

'Yes. I'll come, Duo. I'd rather not lose you.'

'I can't see your mouth.'

He about-faced. 'I don't want to lose you. Duo-- please say it. Can you forgive me?'

Duo's head dipped in a nod. Not real. How could it be? No rage. No rigid impatience. This was the-- the nice Duo, the one who did do things like-- forgive. And the worst thing was that it wasn't the Duo he wanted with him.

'You couldn't have been much older than me,' Duo was saying. 'You were under orders.'

'Does that matter?'

'Doesn't it?'

He couldn't think about it. He dug his teeth into his lip, his nails into his palms. 'Cameron,' he started, and had to clear his throat. 'Cameron seems to be-- responsible. For the coup. Noventa, I don't know if he's ultimately a straw man, but he seems open to some compromise. He's asked me to go to Earth with him.'

'You said that last night.' Duo clenched his hands, and curled on his side, the braid pooling on his knee. 'I think I remember that.'

'Yes. He asked me-- told me. Mars or Earth.'

'It gives Cameron legitimacy. You being there.'

That sounded more like the Duo he knew, and he tried not to be frustrated, or not to acknowledge his frustration, that Duo could be the same in this and not in something that Zechs wanted from him. He made himself sit again. 'Potentially,' he agreed. 'I know. I'm trying not to lose sight of the purpose. I'm trying to decide if it's a worthwhile trade.'

'Double agents don't have high success rates.'

'So I shouldn't try?'

'He'll kill you as soon as he figures it out.'

'I'm aware.'

Duo's pale eyes went narrow. 'Then why aren't you aware this is stupid?'

'I'm aware of that, too.' He shrugged one-shouldered. 'It might be a risk someone has to take. Someone needs to find Une. She's been missing, from what I understand. Preventers is nothing until we know where our leaders are.'

Duo scratched his cheek, until Zechs pointed to it. He put his hand under the pillows. 'I can't argue with that. I don't see why it has to be you, I guess.'

'Who else is there?'

'Let them find someone on Earth. Let Une find herself.'

That was a cogent argument. But he was talking himself out of Mars one more time. And if he was divided now, he wouldn't be less so on Mars. 'Would you run from this if Noventa had asked you?' he said at last.

Duo's eyes gleamed in the dim. 'Noventa's not going to just forgive you for his uncle. You don't believe that either.'

'Noventa is a different man, I believe. And this is a different situation entirely.' Duo tugged at his cap, and Zechs looked away. 'How can I change anything from Mars?'

'But it's fine for me to go.'

'Would you come with me if it were allowed?'

'To Earth. On our own. Trowa and Sally, too. Just not with Noventa.'

'Those weren't his conditions. I can go back as his employee, or his prisoner. Or I can choose exile on Mars.'

'Fine. So you've decided. Why ask me what I think?'

'Maybe I need to know if you'll be waiting for me to come back to you.'

Duo didn't look at him for a long time, then. Just his hair, coiled now around his wrist. When he spoke, finally, it was so soft Zechs barely heard him. 'I don't know. What if you don't come back.'

'I don't mean this to be a suicide mission.' He had to wait for Duo's eyes, and said it again. 'I might have some input to that, you know.'

'Just because you think that doesn't mean it'll be true.'

'I know.' Zechs rubbed his tired eyes, and surrendered. 'Forget Noventa. I'll stay.'

Duo rolled to his back again. 'You'll hate me for making you stay.'

'I couldn't hate you.'

Duo's head followed him standing. 'You'd be surprised.' He scrubbed a knuckle over his ear. 'Just be careful. Don't trust him.'

'I won't.' He touched Duo's cheek, turning it toward him. 'Barton will try to take you from me. I'm jealous enough to worry that you'll let him.'

Duo knocked his hand away, but let him take hold of it instead. 'What?'

'While I'm gone. He still loves you.'

'He broke up with me a long time ago. Before he went to Mars.'

'It was a mistake.'

Duo frowned, expressing something visible about this conundrum, finally. 'I don't know. It's all a little fuzzy. I guess it does explain him kissing me ten minutes ago.' He twirled the tuft of his braid over the back of his hand. 'We had a-- relationship. You and me. On the ship.'

'We had a lot of debate about what it was.' A large group of men went past the infirmary, then, and Zechs turned his head to follow the noise. When he looked back, Duo was waiting for him. 'Yes. I don't want to pressure you. But it meant-- very much-- to me.'

'Promise me something.' Duo's eyes slid away, then back up, as his mouth scrunched to the side, chewed from within. 'Like, a real promise. Pinky swear and vows to the death.'

'If I can. Of course.'

'Find out who gave us the virus,' Duo said. 'And fuck them up seriously hard.'

Zechs cracked a smile. 'I promise.'

Duo sighed. He plucked at his sleeve, pulled it back. 'I wasn't sure what this was. I think I know now. It's yours, isn't it.'

It was the bracelet of his hair. He'd forgotten all about it. He had to give himself a moment, unable to get anything out of a tight throat. He nodded.

Duo pried at the wire fastener, and slipped it off. He held it out. 'You should keep it. For luck. I think you'll need a lot of it.'

'I'd rather you do.' Duo's lips twisted, and then he let it drop to the sheet. Zechs touched it, and then, not entirely sure he was daring enough, touched the braid instead. 'Maybe I... could take a strand of this. For luck.'

Duo didn't say no. Duo didn't say anything, but scratched his cheek. Zechs took that for cautious permission. He was as careful as if he were defusing a bomb, separating a thin strand from the plait, unweaving it slowly. And then, since he was stealing, he stole something else, too. He pressed his lips to Duo's.

Duo turned his head away. 'Thank you for telling me,' he mumbled, toneless, and Zechs didn't imagine it was solely because of his deafness. 'I knew you had some kind of weird secret. That lame story you told me, that truth or dare night. About running away to L2.'

'I've never lied to you, Duo.' He sat, turning the lock of hair over and over in his fingers. 'I've never lied,' he said again, so Duo could see him.

'So you really ran away?'

'I really ran away. I have a long history of running away from adversity.'

'Me, too, really.' Duo pulled his braid close. 'I stole my Gundam even, because I didn't like the orders they gave me. I used to steal a lot. Kind of a character flaw.'

'None of us are perfect.'

'I...' Duo dragged his lower lip through his teeth. 'It may take me a while to be completely cool about it. I'm sorry.'

That, he guessed, was the answer to all of his questions. Duo was who he was, and that had been enough to love once. It was enough to love now, even if he had to do it from Earth. 'I understand,' he said, and if he couldn't give it real voice, Duo didn't know. He stood. 'Are you hungry? I can find you something. Sally said regaining some of the weight you've lost is important.'

'Yeah. Okay.'

He went to the curtain, and was unsurprised to see Barton waiting right outside, eavesdropping shamelessly. Barton met his eyes coolly. Zechs turned back. 'Duo,' he said, and found Duo already watching for him. He lifted his chin, and said it boldly. 'I'll come back for you.'

Duo bit his lip, and then he nodded. 'I'll wait,' he whispered.

He felt a surge of hard elation. It was all he could do to contain himself a nod. He kissed the lock of hair, and tucked it into his shirt.

He brushed past Barton in the antechamber. He reached for the first man passing in the hall, a veteran he recognised from the chaos after the reactor. 'Please tell Noventa I wish to speak to him,' he said courteously. 'I know he's hurrying to leave, but he'll want to know my answer.'

 

**

 

Trowa lifted another spoonful of broth to his lips. Duo managed a final swallow, and waved the bowl away. 'Not feeling so good.'

You'll improve over time. Trowa set the bowl on the wheeled table and gave it a push out of their way. No more of those shakes. You'll have to have real food, as soon as you can handle it.

'Brown rice and fish for breakfast.'

Fish? Trowa cocked his head. It does have protein. We'll see what Noventa left us for supplies.

Duo didn't explain it. He wasn't even entirely sure where he'd had the joke from, but it felt like something involving Zechs. Trowa and Sally both assured him he'd get back more of his memories at some point, but the key word in that seemed to be 'most', and Duo didn't like maybes.

Didn't like laying around in bed, either, even if he'd only managed about two hours of wakey-time before he'd passed out. The station had been empty by then. Just him and the docs. A shuttle home. Noventa hadn't even left anyone behind to escort them. Why bother? They had a ship that couldn't land in gravity and they had no weapons even if they tried it. Whatever they would have tried. He kept trying to wrap his mind around it, and his mind didn't want to go. Coup. A whole new world order, again. For better or worse, for however long it lasted. If it even mattered.

Trowa was watching him when he looked again. That was something new. You could be in a room with Trowa for days and he'd find a way to look anywhere else. Gruffly, Duo told him, 'Did I grow horns or scales in the reactor? You're staring.'

Trowa's thumb rubbed over his knuckles. He only made that gesture when he was deciding something big. He nodded to himself. He said, Do you want a mirror?

That made his heart skip a beat. 'No,' he said flatly. 'I-- no. I don't-- why would I?'

So you'd have some damn idea why we're all acting the way we are.

'I don't want a fucking mirror.' Duo fidgeted with the bracelet on his wrist. Trowa was staring at that, too, but hadn't said anything about it yet. He gave up on the bracelet and pulled at his cap, instead. It itched and he didn't like it, but he didn't like what was under it more. His head was three pounds lighter, and he didn't feel-- anchored.

Trowa's mouth turned up at the corner. I got you something.

'What.'

Two somethings. Trowa reached a foot out, and snagged a duffel near. Familiar duffel. That was Duo's personal luggage, complete with the black makona patch peeling off the front flap. Trowa lifted it into his lap. Here.

He was almost too tired for it, but when Trowa put his neon pink bandana in his hand, he couldn't stop a smile. Trowa smiled too, just a little. Trowa took the cap for him, and helped him tie a knot in the bandana. It slipped in place like it always did, except for when he went to pull his braid out over the knot. But he took a deep breath and he didn't say anything. He'd get used to it.

Now you look better. Trowa adjusted the bandana for him, pulling it to just over his hairline. Here's the other thing. I figured we've got a long trip back to Mars. And I hear you like books.

It was an e-reader. It had 'TB' etched in the corner-- so it was Trowa's. But when he flicked it on, the title that appeared was clearly for him.

Learning Sign Language.

He coughed to clear his throat, and turned the e-reader face down. 'I don't know if I'm ready, Trowa.'

You will be. I know you. Look. Trowa lifted his hand. He put it to his forhead and moved it out a stiff inch. That means 'hello'.

Duo bit his lip. 'Show me that again. Think I missed it.'

Trowa lifted Duo's hand. He put it to Duo's forehead. Like this. Hey, look at that. You're already a pro. He grinned at Duo. I don't think that sign is in there. Not enough fingers.

'Thanks.'

No problem. He stroked Duo's hand. It'll be okay. Really.

'Yeah.' He held his breath, puffed out his cheeks, and let it out. 'Yeah. It will.'

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was co-authored by Marsh, who has since passed away. It was one of her favourites.


End file.
